Let Them Eat Sponge Cake
by Perfectly Maple
Summary: After his boyfriend's kidnapped, Squilliam goes on a quest to rescue him-with the aide of his boyfriend's best friend, of course. Slash: Squill/Sponge, one-sided Pat/Sponge, a touch of Squid/Squill, a dash of Squid/Sponge, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I should probably note here that this is a parody of those crappy kidnapping movies. Kinda. Kinda a parody. Kinda an excuse to write a fic with one of my favorite crack pairings. With just a touch (a TOUCH) of one-sided Pat/Sponge to satisfy my other needs. BUT JUST A TOUCH. Er . . . yeah. Multichaptered, BUT I plan on going like Band8PGeek did in Die Another Day and updating a chapter a day. If I, you know, have the energy (you know what really gives me energy? Reviews. Um . . . sorry, review whoring is not healthy, I know). Anyway, this is, yes again, inspired by Band8PGeek. Although she doesn't realize it, obviously. Rated for sexual themes throughout (yay!), language (duh), perhaps later violence (hopefully), and slash. Yes, it's slash. So . . . you know. Not Spandy. Sorry.**

"Sorry everyone, I'd love to stay, but I have to get back home to my boyfriend," Squilliam couldn't help smiling to himself. He'd never thought the day would come that he could say that without breaking out in an anti-commitment rash.

He certainly hadn't expected to say it and break into a pro-commitment smile.

Boyfriend. BOYFRIEND. Squilliam giggled like a silly schoolgirl, twirling around slightly as he skipped down the street, away from the country club. Boy-be-boy-be-boyfriend. Whatever that meant. Words were insignificant now to the multimillionaire. Who cared about adjectives and nouns when he could be whispering sweet nothings into the ears of his BOYFRIEND?

"Out of my way, peasants," Squilliam yelled, causing several pedestrians to groan in annoyance (before gasping as they realized who spoke such words). "I have to get home fast. To my BOYfriend."

Boyfriend boyfriend boooooooyyyyyyyyfrieeeeeend.

He just didn't tire of the word. Squilliam had never thought he could ever settle down. Especially with a younger man. But . . . oh, it was all just so perfect. He'd actually moved in last night. Which meant . . .

"Oh my god!" Squilliam grabbed a random man, grinning widely into the other's face. "You know what that means?"

"Er . . . wh-what?"

"He's at my house RIGHT NOW!"

"Who is?" Obviously, this man had not heard the rather loud announcement earlier.

"My BOYFRIEND, duh!" Squilliam glanced around, leaning in close. "You know what THAT means?"

"Erm . . . you're a fag?"

"No! Well, yes, that too, but most importantly, it means . . ." Squilliam, still leaning close to the other fish's head, suddenly screamed. "BUTT SEX!!!!!"

"Agh! I'm calling the cops on you for Indecency!"

Squilliam pushed the man aside, skipping ahead. "Good luck with that." He could just pay his way out of police charges. "Nothing can stop me today, now that I have a BOYYYYYFRIENNNNNND!"

A stretch limousine pulled up beside Squilliam then, the driver looking out at him nervously. "Um . . . sir? Wouldn't you rather I take you home? It's faster than walking."

Oh right. Squilliam had almost forgotten his fabulous wealth (because, you know, he had a boyfriend. In case you forgot). "Oh, right! That would be much faster." Squilliam got in, smiling at the limo driver. "Hey Pavi, did I ever tell you about my BOYFRIEND?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Wow. I can't believe you're actually going to be living here," And not next door to me, he added mentally. He forced the smile back onto his face. "That's just . . . that's great!"

"I know, isn't it?" The smaller male plopped onto the ivory couch, a smile permanently etched on his face. "I mean, I'm going to miss you and Squidward. But I'll still visit. And I'll see Squid at work."

"But SpongeBob, I . . ." The starfish looked down, biting his lowerlip.

"What's wrong, Patrick?" Those eyes. Those damn blue eyes. Worse than any interrogation technique. Patrick would spill every secret under that sapphire glow.

"I . . . I don't think this house is safe! It seems kinda flimsy."

Not as flimsy as that excuse.

SpongeBob giggled. "Oh Pat, I doubt Squilliam's 7.5 million dollar house is flimsy. You worry too much."

"I'm only worrying about you! Besides, it only looks like 5 million, tops."

SpongeBob sat up, grabbing his friend's hands and pulling him onto the couch with him. "Don't worry so much. I'll be fine. Squilliam will take care of me."

"Yeah, I know," Patrick was silent for a moment. "I just wish . . ."

"What?"

"I just . . ." Patrick shook his head, smiling again. "I just wish I had something to eat."

"Oh! The fridge is in the kitchen," SpongeBob frowned. "Which . . . I don't know where that is yet. Um . . ."

"You don't know where the kitchen is?"

"Well, I just moved in. And this place is so big. And I don't want to be rude, looking around some else's house without permission . . ."

Patrick couldn't help but laugh. "SpongeBob, this is YOUR house now."

His laugh died after those words, of course. SpongeBob's house. SpongeBob and Squilliam's house. Their multimillion dollar life. Again that pain in his stomach.

"Oh, yeah, I know. I just . . . I can't believe it! This is all happening so fast!" He flopped back down on the couch, face completely serene. Such a look of joy should have made Patrick happy too, right? He should have smiled in return. But he just . . . he couldn't.

"Do you think we'll be together forever?"

Patrick frowned. "Who?"

His friend laughed softly, not cruelly, just . . . well . . . just normally. SpongeBob really only had one laugh. And he was never rude or mean about laughing. "Me and Squilliam."

"Oh." A good friend would have said yes. Patrick should have said yes.

Patrick was not a good friend. "Probably not."

SpongeBob's eyes widened. "Wha . . . what?"

"Probably not. I mean, you're not really alike. And he's rich. Besides, isn't Squilliam kinda a whore?"

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Well, didn't he fuck Squidward?"

SpongeBob chose his words carefully, before breaking the hard silence. "That was . . . that was a long time ago."

"Not really that long. I mean, we used to hear them fucking next door, remember?"

"Yes," That was actually how they had met. Well, not met. They'd met before. At the Bubble Bowl (briefly) and during the restaurant scam (again, briefly). Never exchanging names, just faces. Just brief remembrances.

The point was, they weren't officially introduced until that night, when Squidward and Squilliam had been making so much noise and SpongeBob had gone over to see if anything was wrong (naively mistaking sex sounds as the sounds of a struggle).

Squilliam had answered the door.

Naked.

Dripping with whipped cream and other fluids.

And had said something witty and/or sexy. Probably something about the sponge's eyes. Squilliam was always remarking about SpongeBob's eyes.

The details were a bit hazy. He remembered the actions-the threesome, the cuddling afterwards, the "fuck off, Fancyson" from Squidward, the . . . the driving back to Squilliam's house for more, more, more.

Always more. Always extravagant. Always-

"They're probably still fucking."

"No they AREN'T, Patrick," SpongeBob stood up, smile no longer adorning his delicate face. "They . . . they wouldn't. S-Squilliam says he loves me!"

"Probably says the same thing to Squidward."

"Shut up!"

"No, YOU shut up!" Patrick jumped to his stubby feet, poking at SpongeBob's nose as he yelled. "All you ever fucking talk about is Squilliam. That's it! It's like . . . it's like you don't even care about ME anymore."

"Patrick . . . Patrick, of course I care about you. You're my best friend." Where had all this come from?

"Whatever," Patrick sneered, turning around. "I'm leaving."

"Patrick, wait, y-you don't have to go!" SpongeBob reached out, only to have his hands pushed away.

"Have fun with your BOYYYFRIENDDDD," Patrick mocked, stepping out the front door, leaving behind the teary eyes SpongeBob.

"Patrick . . ." The door slammed, leaving SpongeBob alone to sob. Crying on a couch that was worth so much more than he was.

Patrick was probably right. Squilliam probably didn't care anyway. He should just leave now befor—

"Hel-lo-o!" That voice. Managing to turn "hello" into a three syllable word. SpongeBob sniffled, unable to look up as he continued to cry. "Where's my boyfri—hey, are you okay?" His voice softened, tentacles suctioning to the ground as he padded over to the crying sponge.

"N-no," SpongeBob whimpered, sitting up.

"Awww, your mascara's running," Squilliam smiled, wiping a line of black away.

"Don't look at me. I'm so stupid," His voice cracked, more tears falling.

"What's . . . what's wrong?" Squilliam's unibrow furrowed as he surveyed the small boy. "Did you stub your toe or something?"

"N-no."

"You sure? I'd be willing to kiss it better."

That managed to make the sponge giggle at least. "N-no thank you, I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're GORGEOUS," He lifted the sponge off the ground, sitting on the couch himself before placing the younger male in his lap. His right hand rested atop SpongeBob's knee, the left rubbing circularly around his back. "Now, what's wrong, my little bipolar sweetheart?"

"P-Patrick was just—"

"Wait, Patrick's the fat one, right?"

SpongeBob sniffled. "Not fat. He has a condition."

"Um . . . okay, whatever. What did tubby do?"

"He—please don't call him that."

Squilliam smiled, "Alright, alright. What did Patrick do?"

"He just . . . h-he's so m-m-mean sometimes."

"Then you shouldn't talk to him anymore. Problem solved." Time for that oh-so-romantic sodomy now.

SpongeBob gasped. "I can't stop talking to him! H-he's my best friend!"

"So?" Squilliam, not a "friend" type of person, didn't understand this logic. "You can buy friends better than him." And thinner. "What's the big deal?"

SpongeBob squirmed out of Squilliam's lap-a move not as dignified as he'd hoped-glaring at his boyfriend, hands on hips. "Patrick's NOT a toy! He's my best friend! I can't just buy a new best friend."

"Hey, calm down!" Squilliam laughed, grabbing the sponge's wrist. "Come on, let's just relax and—"

"NO!" SpongeBob jerked his arm away, running down the hall.

"SpongeBob, come on!" Squilliam stood up, contemplating chasing after him. "SpongeBob!"

"NO!"

Squilliam sighed, sitting back down. It would be best to just let him cool off for a while. Then he'd go get him back. And all would be well again.

Then: makeup sex.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Four hours was long enough!

Squilliam almost wished he lived in a smaller house. It would make the searching that much quicker.

"Pavi! PAVI!!!!" No, he hadn't forgotten the sponge's name. He just needed to find his personal assistant to help him look.

But much like SpongeBob, Pavi was also nowhere to be found.

"You just can't find good help these days," Squilliam grumbled, searching the kitchen. "SpongeBob? Come on out. Please?"

Moving onto his favorite room of the house; but no, SpongeBob wasn't in the bathroom, either.

"SPONGEBOB! Come ON!" He was starting to understand why his rival grew so angered by the little yellow guy. Except Squidward hated SpongeBob for being around, and Squilliam hated SpongeBob for being gone. "SpongeBob, please . . . come OUT already!"

He listened, but nothing.

Hours passed, the octopus sweaty and exhausted. And not from the sex he'd so craved earlier in the day. He dragged his weary body into the bedroom, finding a square lump under the covers.

Squilliam smirked. "Well well well, could it be my little sponge cake? All wrapped up and waiting for me to devour?" He gripped the blankets, not waiting for an answer before pulling the blankets back—

And discovering a pillow.

"Who the fuck put a pillow under my blanket?" Squilliam growled, almost replacing the blankets before a white sheet of paper caught his attention. "Huh. A note? Kinky." The cephalopod smirked (again-resmirked), grabbing the letter and moving it close to his face, taking in the handwriting.

"Not my Spongie's handwriting," He tilted his head, face growing paler with each word.

Each cheesy, stolen-from-Hollywood, grammar-grating, misspelled word:

_Squilliam,_

_You brake my heart. Now I brake what you hold dear. You can't find me. I am hidden. And also, I want your money or I kill your boyfrend._

_Love,_

_Kidnaper_

"Okay, who wrote this shit?" Squilliam nearly crumpled the sheet up before he translated the text in his head. Fixing the misspellings, the grammar mistakes, the clichés. Wait. Someone had SpongeBob.

Someone was going to carve up his delectable sponge cake unless he stopped them.

Oh.

Fuck!

Who would do something like this?

Wait . . . wasn't SpongeBob crying earlier about a certain someone? Who was it?

"FATASS!" Squilliam shouted as he remembered. That fat starfish that lived next to Squidward. He was uneducated. He was love sick. He . . .

WAS A CRIMINAL! Had to be!

Squilliam wasn't just rich. He was smart, too. And it was time to kick some morbidly obese ass.

**AN: I stole the sponge cake thing from Band8PGeek. Anyway, I may post the next chapter tomorrow. Hopefully I will.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: This chapter didn't come out exactly as planned. And now this fic is taking a more comedic turn. Anyway, I don't know if this should be M or T. I'm honestly not sure. OH, and if anyone has anymore creative ways to call Patrick fat, and would be willing to share, please let me know.**

"WHAT? I DIDN'T KIDNAP SPONGEBOB!" It was a good idea, though. If Patrick was a thinking man, he would have come up with that plan.

"I know it was you! Don't lie!" Squilliam paused, "You bastard." Yes, that was good. Dramatic emphasis and all that.

"But . . . but I didn't!" Again, wished he had. Patrick crossed his arms, glaring at the octopus. "You don't have any evidence."

"Oh-ho-ho, but I DO!"

"Did you just call me a hoe?"

"Shut up!" Squilliam hissed, pulling the oh-so-poetic kidnapper's note (would it be considered a ransom note? Squilliam didn't fucking know. Or care) out of his pocket. "Evidence!"

Patrick blinked. "But I can't write."

"LIAR!" Or was he? Squilliam paused for another moment. So many damn pauses. "Shit . . . I forgot that you're stupid. In fact, this letter is so incredibly stupid, it must have been written by a genius. Someone cunning enough to break into my own home and steal my true love right from beneath my nose."

"Don't you mean your unibrow?"

"Shut up," Squilliam continued analyzing the letter. "But who would do such a thing? I mean, who would want to destroy my life? I'm awesome!"

"I've seen better," The starfish grumbled, "And I don't see what SpongeBob sees in you."

"My incredible wit, tact, beauty, talent. My money . . ." Squilliam trailed off, suddenly growing a bit panicked. "Wait, you don't think he loves me for my money, do you?"

"Whatever. I don't have him here. So just leave me alo—HEY!" The fat starfish squirmed as the octopus grabbed him around the arms. "LET ME GO!! What the HELL?"

Rich cephalopod shook poor starfish angrily. "Don't you get it, tubby? Someone KIDNAPPED my BOYFRIEND! My fucking BOYFRIEND!" That wasn't working. The cap lock abuse or the shaking. Damn. "Not to mention your best friend."

Somehow that seemed to rewire Patrick, whose eyes grew large then. "SpongeBob might be in trouble!"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, lardass."

"But . . . but . . . they might hurt SpongeBob!"

"I KNOW! That's why I'm here. Thought you had him, since you, like, made him cry and everythi—"

"I made him cry?" His rather large stomach clenched then, black eyes, already large from earlier news, widened further, tearing up a bit. "Really?"

"Yes. Sob, actually."

"Oh," Squilliam watched in shock and disgust as Patrick burst (well, exploded) into tears. "I-I d-didn't mean to make him c-cry."

"Yeah, but you did. Ewww, you're getting snot all over your face." Squilliam looked away. He hated criers. Most criers, anyway. His boyfriend was cute when he cried. But then again, SpongeBob was cute whenever he did ANYTHING. Squilliam was a bit enamored. In a stupid, borderline out of character way.

Such is love.

"P-poor SpongeBob! I-I c-c-can't let anyone h-hurt him."

"Yeah. Nor can I. Which is why I'm going to capture the bastard that did this and make him pay." If only he knew who it was. Damn. The unibrowed man had really thought it was Patrick. Being wrong sucked coc—

"Can I help?"

"Excuse me?" If Squilliam had ears, he would have considered cleaning them out. Surely he hadn't heard the starfish right.

"C-can I help you? Please . . . I-I don't want SpongeBob to be hurt. What kind of friend would I be then?"

"Don't you have somewhere else to act OOC?" Squilliam turned away. Now to find that kidnap—

"OH PLEASE!" Patrick threw himself at the octopus's feet, grabbing at them as he cried. "I'll do anything! PLEASE!"

Squilliam smirked. "Anything, huh?" Images of the starfish splayed spread-eagle across a mattress struck a nerve in his libido.

Until he remembered:

A SpongeBob

B Patrick was a total fat ass and disgusting

C SpongeBob

D Profit!!!!!

And, while D made no sense and completely abused an old meme on Encyclopedia Dramatica (Squilliam was all about the lulz), the first two and a half were completely true. Or true enough to dissuade the octopus from taking advantage of the pink idiot.

"Whatever, fine, you can help. I mean, you're his best friend. Maybe you WILL know something I don't know. Which, of course, is doubtful, but . . ." He trailed off, realizing there was no point on wasting his fabulous wit on the fat idiot.

He felt like a bad caricature of Squidward at this point. How obnoxious. It was as though his actions were being dictated by a shitty fan author.

Speaking of Squiddy . . .

"You don't suppose my high school rival might have a bit of a grudge to settle, do you?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You mean that cheerleader you knocked up?"

"Huh? What?" Squilliam blinked, running those words through his head. "As far as I know, I didn't knock any cheerleaders up in my lifetime." Only a few pregnancy scares. "And how would you know that anyway?"

"I know your type," Patrick sneered.

"You're completely full of shit, aren't you."

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

". . . yeah, um, we're just going to do a scene change now and interrogate Squiddy, okay?"

- - - - - - - - - - - -

He'd finally done it. Completely rid his home of anything that reminded him of Squilliam. All the scented candles, all the commissioned love poems, all the dirty photographs.

"Time for some relaxation, Squidward, you deserve it," He chuckled, lowering his body into the bathtub. Let the rejuvenation begin. It was time for a new life. A life without—

"SQUILLIAM!" Squidward's body stiffened as two forms appeared beside him in the water, popping out of the bottom of the tub in the fashion of all abstract cartoons. The cashier's heart raced as he took in first his nemesis, then . . . well . . . could he consider Patrick a nemesis, too? No, the starfish was too stupid to have a title that honored. "What are you doing in my bathtub? I swear, if you're trying to . . . to . . ."

Oh fuck, Squidward was getting a boner.

So much for "fuck Squilliam, I don't care anymore".

Now all he wanted to do was . . . well, fuck Squilliam. Fuck . . . fuck was a confusing word.

"Save it, Squiddy, I don't have time for the mindfucking today. Or the real fucking, either," Squilliam climbed out of the tub, clothes soaked and sticking to his thin body. "Somebody kidnapped my lover. And by someone, I mean . . ." He let his eyes roll back to the tub, locking onto the bathing octopus.

"What?" Squidward could play stupid if it suited him.

But it suited Patrick better. "I already said it wasn't me!"

"I wasn't talking about you!" Squilliam snapped, turning to Squidward in annoyance. "How do you deal with this idiot?"

Squidward shrugged. "He's not as bad as SpongeBob. Besides, Patrick has a nice—"

"Stop changing the subject!" Squilliam paused, licking his lips after a moment. Bubble gum bubble bath? Hmmm . . . kinda fruity, even for Squidward.

Kinda cheap for Squidward, too.

In fact, didn't SpongeBob use bubble gum bubble bath?

"Oh my god! You really DID kidnap SpongeBob."

"WHAT?" Squidward nearly leapt out of the tub, only to be pulled back down by the glaring starfish beside him. "Patrick, get your hands off me."

"No way, best friend stealer."

"Yeah, keep him down, fatty." Squilliam stepped back to the tub, grabbing a handful of the bubble bath before shoving it in Squidward's face. "SpongeBob uses the EXACT same bubble bath."

"I know," Squidward didn't hesitate, nor did his face change expression.

"You know?"

"I know."

"Does he have a blog or something? Is this common knowledge?"

"I didn't know what kind of bubble bath he uses," Patrick said helpfully. Or maybe not so helpfully. Who really listens to Patrick anyway?

How he wished he knew what kind of bubble bath SpongeBob used.

How he wished to bathe with SpongeBob.

How he wished to be sponge bathed by SpongeBob.

How he wished . . .

Oh, right, had to get back to listening. Squilliam was ranting.

" . . . and in conclusion, you bought this bubble bath in a sick attempt to seduce the sponge and to steal him from me."

Patrick must have missed something. Oh well.

"You're insane, Squilliam. Always were, but I think SpongeBob's made you crazier."

"Then explain the bubble bath!"

"I don't have to expla—"

"Explain!"

". . . I'm not getting out of this, am I?" Squidward rubbed his forehead. "Okay, fine. I know we use the same bubble bath. In fact, I got the idea from him in the first place . . ."

The room started to shimmer a bit, Patrick's eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Ooh, we're going to a flashback thingy, aren't we?"

"Hold onto your fat rolls, tubby," Squilliam couldn't resist the wisecrack as the room faded to black, the flashback coming into view.

"You see, it was the end of his first week of training at the Krusty Krab. And I had to walk him home because . . . well . . ."

"_My leg hurts SOOOOO bad, Squidward," SpongeBob sobbed, hobbling along as the two walked home._

_The octopus sighed. "Okay, fine." He picked the sponge up, walking the few feet to the pineapple. "I still don't understand how you burned your leg on the grill." He couldn't believe he was carrying the sponge home. How demeaning._

"_I'm new!" SpongeBob whimpered. As if that explained anything really._

"_Fine, whatever." He set the sponge down carefully at his front door. " Well, you're home. I'm going back . . ."_

"_Squidward, wait . . . I . . . I need help up the stairs," SpongeBob pouted, baby blue eyes gazing up imploringly. "P-please, Squidward? Help me up and . . . and I won't bother you anymore."_

"Of course I had to help him. I mean . . . well . . ."

"He's pathetic," Squilliam cut in, although he spoke the words in a loving way. "Pathetic and weak. Not helping him would be the same as . . . as . . ."

"Kicking a pregnant woman?"

Squidward and Squilliam both looked a bit disgusted by Patrick's statement.

"What?" Patrick asked innocently.

"Er . . . anyway, I took him up the stairs. When he decided . . ."

"_I think a bath would be soothing. Don't you think, Squid?"_

"_Er . . . I don't think anything," Squidward fidgeted, stepping towards the stairs to leave. "I'll see you around—"_

"_Squidward, I need a bath! Please . . . please help me!"_

"_You only burned your leg. I don't see why you need—"_

_SpongeBob began to cry then, immediately alarming the octopus._

"_Um . . . c-come on, don't cry, alright?"_

"_I-it hurts so bad! A-and y-you're y-y-yelling at me."_

"_I'm not . . . I'm not fucking yelling!" Squidward flinched, "Well, okay, that was a yell. But I wasn't earlier."_

_There was no getting out of this. Fuck._

"_Okay, fine, I-I'll help you get your stupid bath started." He turned the faucets on the bathtub._

"_Needs bubbles."_

"_Huh?"_

"_T-the bath. It needs bubbles."_

"_Oh. Right." Squidward glanced around, finding the bottle of soap and pouring it into the tub. The childish scent of bubble gum teased at his nose. "Bubble gum?" He said dumbly._

"_Yeah. It's supposed to be good for the skin."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yeah." SpongeBob giggled. "And I like the smell."_

"_Me . . . me too," Squidward shuddered slightly. "I really like the smell."_

"_That's what I smell like," SpongeBob said softly, stepping closer to the octopus. "Smell my neck."_

"_You don't have a neck," Squidward couldn't help saying, although he leaned forward and sniffed the side of the sponge's face._

_Bubble gum._

_Like a straight shot of cocaine to his system. Except instead of a high, he received a rush of childish memories. Hopscotch and jump rope and patty cake and . . . and . . ._

_Not just his, but the collective memory. Childhood in general. Childhood in all its glory and goodness._

_Squidward wanted to punish that childhood. Wanted to taint it, varnish it, completely pervert it._

"_Here, let me undress you," Squidward said, grinning wickedly as he yanked the sponge's pants off._

"_O-oh. Thank you, Squidwar—"_

"Wait a second, you fucked SpongeBob?"

"Of course I did. Why do you think I hate him so much?" Squidward looked at Squilliam oddly. "You didn't know that?"

"You . . . you fucked my Spongie?" Both Squilliam and Patrick said that at the same time.

Both glared at each other at the same time.

Squidward laughed. By himself. At the same time as himself. "He was available. Besides, let's be honest. Who HASN'T fucked SpongeBob?"

Patrick raised his hand meekly, "I haven't fucked SpongeBob."

But how he wanted to. No matter how many times the sponge had been fucked by octopi of multiple varieties.

"Yeah, we all know, Fatrick," Squilliam said absentmindedly. "That still doesn't explain the bubble bath, Squidward."

"Oh. It's good for the skin."

Damn. That was actually a good reason. It actually fit with the flashback too, kinda.

"We're back where we started," Squilliam sighed, grabbing Patrick and dragging him out the door. "Come on, let's go find another suspect."

Squidward lowered himself deeper into the tub, luxuriating in his bubble gum paradise. So good for the skin.

And . . .

And he . . .

He liked the smell.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Yeah, I should probably remind you guys that this is a parody of mystery and suspense. Not to be taken seriously. Plot has more holes than SpongeBob.**

"We're never going to find him," Patrick sobbed, sliding to the cold concrete.

"Sure we will," Squilliam said, although he fell to the ground beside the sea star. "We just aren't thinking about this right."

All day they'd interrogated various suspects. Krabs. Plankton. Sandy. Hell, even Larry.

No. No. No. And fuck no.

None of them were kidnappers. Not a one. And, unlike Squidward, none of them even had any interesting "I fucked SpongeBob in the past" stories.

Or if they did, they didn't share them.

Oh . . . gag, now Squilliam was envisioning his boyfriend in bed with every citizen of Bikini Bottom.

Krabs and SpongeBob.

Gross.

Even his boyfriend wasn't cute enough to pull that off. Squilliam still mindvomited.

"S-Squilliam, w-what if he's d-d-d-d—"

"He's NOT dead! Don't even say that."

"I wasn't going to say dead," Patrick said dumbly. "I was gonna say . . ." He trailed off, eyes widening. "OH FUCK! He could be dead!"

"I just said he wasn't!" And Squilliam was never wrong, so . . . that was that.

"But . . . but . . . but I'm too old to go find a new best friend."

"And too stupid and boring," Squilliam groaned. Spending so much time with the obese sea star had certainly rubbed his charm away. "I'm going back home," The octopus stood up from the ground, dusting himself off and walking away. Who's bright idea had it been to do the investigating on foot?

"Wait! I-I . . . I wanna come, too!"

"You're NOT staying at my house tonight!"

"Oh . . . oh please? I'm so scared. Wh-what if SpongeBob really IS dead? I won't be able to sleep."

"Darling, if you sleep anything like you eat, I'm sure you'll be fine."

What did that even mean? Squilliam moaned in annoyance. His wit was suffering thanks to the distressed dietphobe.

"S-Squilliam, I . . ." Patrick looked down. "I'm sorry. I know SpongeBob loves you more than he'll ever love me. And I guess . . . I guess I was just jealous." Not the tactic he'd planned on using, but . . . eh, sudden shifts in discussion were always fun.

"Oh . . ." Heartfelt apologies were always awkward. Squilliam, not one to ever apologize himself, always found it odd when other people felt the need. "Um . . . okay then."

"I just . . ." The starfish looked up, "C-can't I stay with you? Just tonight? We might be able to come up with something to find SpongeBob. Then . . . then when SpongeBob's back, y-you two . . . you two can live h-happily ever after, l-like he wants. And . . . and I won't bother you a-anymore."

Squilliam had only been with the starfish for one day, and he already knew this was a very un-Patrick thing to say. "Really?"

Patrick sighed, "No. Not really." He'd never leave SpongeBob alone. Even if it meant he'd be intruding on his friend's only true chance at happiness, he knew he wouldn't be able to cut himself out of the sponge's life.

Patrick was the cancer that SpongeBob just couldn't shake, no matter how much chemo his body undertook.

"But . . . but I . . ."

"Okay, look. You want to fuck my boyfriend. Which is cool, I understand that. I mean, he's gorgeous and quirky and full of holes," Squilliam smiled just thinking about it, before his face hardened, glaring at Patrick, "But—"

This was hopeless. Yelling at Patrick wouldn't solve this damn mystery any faster.

And yelling at Patrick wouldn't drive him away, either. Besides, if SpongeBob insisted on befriending someone so juvenile (and fat), there must have been a good reason. Surely Patrick had some redeeming traits. Um . . . no, not his smile. Not his attitude. Not his . . .

Fuck, what DID Patrick have going for him? Time for Squilliam to put on his thinking cap. Hmm . . .

. . .

. . .

OH! Of course!

Nice ass.

There. That was one good thing. Patrick had a nice ass.

Squilliam smiled, content with himself. At least he could think of one kind thing about his boyfriend's BFF. It actually softened Squilliam to the point of genuine geniality. "Okay, fine, you can stay with me."

"I-I can?"

"Sure! It'll be like a party." A party of two. In which both partygoers hated each other.

It would be like a lunch with Squilliam's mother. Oh goody.

No, it wouldn't be THAT bad.

"Oh. Wow, thanks, Squilliam." Patrick was gushing in a very SpongeBob-esque manner. Hmm . . . whatever. Gushing was cute when his boyfriend did it, but Squilliam didn't find it particularly adorable in Patrick. "I won't kick or anything, I promise."

"Kick . . .?"

That's when it hit the millionaire. Patrick intended on sleeping in the same bed as Squilliam.

"FUCK NO!"

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Fuck yes.

Unfortunately.

Squilliam sighed, rolling onto his side. This was HIS bed. Well, his and his boyfriend's.

And that fat starfish was in it with him. It made him feel so filthy. Even in his skankier days, Squilliam hadn't used his bed to sleep with people. It was his sanctuary. A sanctuary he'd finally been able to share with SpongeBob.

Not a sanctuary for the obese moron beside him. Just the thought of those fat rolls, sweating in the silk sheets . . . Squilliam shuddered, trying to turn his mind off.

"Wow, your bed's so comfy! I should find a millionaire to bang. This bed is way better than mine."

"SpongeBob doesn't fuck me for the bed," Squilliam couldn't help replying, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice (not that he ever tried to mask his emotions). "He fucks me because he loves me."

"And because you're rich."

"N-no . . . no, that's not it at all, fatty." Couldn't be. Squilliam was used to people adoring him for his wealth, but SpongeBob wasn't like the others. He was compassionate, innocent, beautiful in every way, shape, and form.

Right?

"Patrick? D-did SpongeBob really say that?"

"Say what?"

"That . . . that he was with me for my money?" Damn, his voice was shaking. He couldn't believe he was getting upset over this. Getting upset around PATRICK. How demeaning. How fucking pathetic.

"Um . . ." Now was the time to lie. Time to break up the relationship.

But even Patrick couldn't quite bring himself to do that. Even lousy friends had their limits of horrendousness.

"No," Patrick finally grumbled. "He said he loved your carefree attitude. And your sense of style. And your unibrow apparently gave him the biggest stiffy of his life."

That actually made Squilliam giggle. Not laugh. Giggle. "Really?"

"Yeah. He really said stiffy, too."

The fact that SpongeBob would talk about boners at all cracked the octopus up. And to refer to them using such crass language . . . his boyfriend really wasn't as two dimensional as he seemed. "What else did he say?"

"A lot of things," Patrick couldn't take much more of this. Time to bring some real issues to the table. Or the mattress. Whatever. "You're only dating SpongeBob to get back at Squidward, aren't you."

"Huh?"

Where the fuck had THAT come from?

"I mean, it's like you want what he can't have or something."

"Meaning?"

"I . . . I don't know," Patrick admitted. "Sometimes I think I understand these things, but . . . well . . . I don't know. But I know you're using SpongeBob."

"I'm not using him!"

"So you love him?"

"Absolutely." Completely, fully, pathetically.

It was such a cliché: love changing someone. But Squilliam really seemed to have changed!

Then again, WAS SpongeBob just a grand scheme to get back at Squidward? It did seem to fit with Squilliam's overall character developmen--no. Couldn't be.

Then again . . .

Squilliam had started playing clarinet in order to surpass Squidward.

He had gotten rich just so Squidward would be poorer than him.

He had gone on House Fancy to prove his house was better than Squidward's.

He had . . .

The list was fairly lengthy. In fact, he often mentally checked "would Squidward be jealous of this?" before any activity. And if it was a yes, he'd do it.

Was fucking SpongeBob a way of punishing Squidward?

"No," Squilliam finally said aloud.

"No, you don't love SpongeBob?"

Oh, fuck, that wasn't what he meant! "NO! I mean, yes. I mean no! I mean . . . I love him. I love SpongeBob."

"You don't love him. Not like I do."

"I do love him!" Squilliam insisted. "I wouldn't have let him move in if I didn't!"

Because Squilliam wouldn't go through that much work just to piss off Squidward. He'd screwed love interests of Squidward's before but had never shacked up with them. The sex was enough.

"It started as a mind game," Squilliam admitted. "I wanted to make Squidward jealous at first. I mean, when we were having that threesome, I could just tell that Squidward was crazy about both of us. And it was just . . . it was a rush, you know? Breaking them like that. Breaking Squidward by breaking SpongeBob. Or . . . well, not breaking him. I didn't set out to hurt anyone. Anyone but Squidward, of course," He laughed softly, losing himself in his explanation.

"I didn't set out to fall in love, either. I mean, I thought SpongeBob was sexy and everything. In a forbidden, too innocent, too young, kind of way. But he was so . . . so pure. And I don't just mean sexually. But spiritually. He wasn't broken. It would have been so easy to break him, to destroy him even. And doing so may have even broken Squidward in the process-because I think he was really enamored with SpongeBob at that time. But . . . I just . . . I couldn't. Nobody's pure like that. Not me, not Squidward, not . . . no one but him. And . . . and I'll die if someone breaks him. If that fucking animal that has him does anything to break his innocence . . ."

Tentacles tightened into fists, body stiff and poised to attack beneath the blankets. Thinking about the kidnapper was setting off more rage than the cephalopod was used to dealing with. "I expect them to hurt him physically. And that won't go unpunished either, believe me. But if they . . . if they hurt him spiritually, if they taint him. If they put one drop of cynicism or distrust or . . . or . . . or . . ." Or what? Words were losing this battle, but Squilliam pressed on. "I'll kill them. I'll kill them for killing his innocence. I'll kill them, then . . . t-then I'll kill myself for not protecting him!"

His face was a bit moist, Squilliam realizing in surprise that he'd actually shed a few tears. Speeches of that variety tended to work a guy up. "Does that prove how much I love him?" He finally managed to ask.

Patrick replied with a loud, animalistic snore.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Well rested?" Squilliam growled, tapping his left feet (both of them) as he waited for the drowsy starfish to finish getting ready.

"Not really," Patrick yawned. "Got any cereal for me?"

"I don't have anything for you. Besides, do you really think you need any more food?"

"Yes."

Squilliam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, fine, get something out of the kitchen. We have a lot to do today to find my boyfriend."

"You know, is it weird that we haven't called the cops about this?"

Squilliam thought about that for a minute before shaking his head. "No. I don't think that's weird at all."

"Hmm . . . okay then! Where's your kitchen?"

Squilliam grabbed a sheet of paper off a table, handing it to the sea star. "There's a map of my entire house. Surely even an idiot like YOU can figure this out."

Only a true pimp had a map printed of the interior of his house.

"Um . . ." The words and symbols meant little to the more than slightly stupid starfish. "Erm . . . o-okay, maybe I get it." He ran out of the room, tripping and falling.

Squilliam laughed. Nothing funnier than a fat person falling. All the money in the world couldn't produce quite the same glee factor as that.

Except maybe a neck nibble from his missing boyfriend. Fuck, that killed the giggling. Now he missed SpongeBob even more. "Go eat already," Squilliam snarled. The faster the starfish ate, the faster they could find SpongeBob.

But with no leads and no suspects, what was their next move? Maybe Patrick had been right about the cop thing. They should turn this over to them. SpongeBob had already been missing for twenty four hours. This was the longest Squilliam had gone without sex. Not to mention the fact that his boyfriend was in all sorts of danger.

Not to mention sex!

Squilliam shook his head, angered at his sex obsessed mind. Now was the time to fixate on kicking ass and taking names. Not fucking ass and screaming names.

Shit, that lame joke only made him hornier.

Patrick came back a few moments later, looking perplexed (and not about butt fuckery, as Squilliam was). "I got the stupidest prize in the cereal."

"Prize?" Squilliam pulled his mind out of the gutter and back into his lavish, five star life. "If it's a dildo, it's mine."

Okay, mind was still in the gutter. Oh well.

"No, look!" Patrick handed the prize to Squilliam. "It's, like, an IOU or some crap."

Another piece of paper? Squilliam had read enough murder mysteries to realize this was probably a note from the perp (a note from the perp to the perv . . . that had a nice ring to it).

_Deer Squilliam,_

_I'm sorry. I can't hold up this illiterate bullshit anymore. Ignore the fucked up grammar in that last letter. I was just trying to throw you off my trail (and the spell check was broken on Word *sweatdrop*). Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that SpongeBob's still alive. And you're still not going to get him back. At least not until you pay up a little._

_No, I don't need your money. But I'd love to see how much you're willing to give up to save your supposed true love. I won't set down a dollar amount. It's up to you what you give. Just as it's up to me if SpongeBob lives._

_Much respect and adoration,_

_Kidnapper (who has yet to come up with snazzy villain name)_

"Okay, fucking douche bag typed *sweatdrop* in the letter," Squilliam complained. "AND wrote "anyways" instead of "anyway". How am I supposed to respect that?"

"I dunno," Patrick said, though he actually appeared worried by the letter.

"And besides, how am I supposed to give money to someone I haven't met? I have no directions of any sort for a drop-off location."

"Rock Bottom," Patrick said simply.

"Huh?"

He pointed. "Words. On the back. Rock Bottom. I wonder what that's code for."

Squilliam flipped the paper over. Sure enough, the kidnapper had left directions, printed right off Map Quest, and detailing the correct location. "So this is where the kidnapper expects me to take my money, eh?"

"Guess so," Patrick said. "To be honest, I wasn't really listening." So much for being worried about SpongeBob.

"Well, this asshole doesn't realize who he's messing with. I am Squilliam Fancyson! Nobody steals my boyfriend _or_ my money. Least of all some dumbass who can't even be witty in the ransom note."

"Exactly," Patrick, once more, wasn't listening, though he figured now was a good time to throw in some sort of agreement. After all, he HAD slept with Squilliam (minus sex, of course). Had to show some support.

"I'll be going to Rock Bottom, don't you worry."

"Wasn't worried."

"But I'll be getting my sponge cake back, WITHOUT payment. And there better not be a bite out of him, either."

"Wait," Patrick cut in, "Are we trying to save SpongeBob? Or your dessert?"


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Fucking cheesy. In fact, cheesy doesn't begin to define this. Shockingly, I think I'm almost done with this fic. Crazy, huh?**

"W-where am I?" SpongeBob whimpered, shaking against the restraints holding him upright. A trickle of blood slipped from his wrists, skin rupturing due to the friction of iron.

"Please . . . I-I . . . I wanna go home," The sponge cried softly, face falling forward. How he wished to just fall asleep. But every time he tried, his captor forced him awake. Beating him, shaking him, screaming . . .

So loud. So painful. So . . .

"P-please let me go!"

But this was worse than that. Being ignored. Alone in the dark, sightless, nothing but the pain to remind himself of his worthless existence. Not even a ticking clock to waste away the hours. How long had he been captive? Had he always been here? It was easy to believe. Surely he wasn't the same being who, only two nights ago, had fallen asleep in the arms of his beloved. Surely this wasn't a chapter of the life of a happy go lucky frycook.

This wouldn't happen to the boy he once believed himself to be, no. SpongeBob was a good person. He always tried his best, always gave what he could (and then some), never expected anything in return.

This kind of thing didn't happen to good people! Hell was for the evil, for the damned, for the . . . the . . .

SpongeBob was . . . was evil? Was he evil? Had his past simply been an escape from his actuality? Was he nothing more than a soulless monster? Was this what he deserved?

Another sob, tears against his bruises stinging and aching. "P-please l-let me go!" He tried once more. Why so many protests? This was his destiny. His punishment. His everything.

His nothing.

He was nothing. And nothings don't deserve freedom. Or love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"He's everything," Squilliam forgot his turn signal, causing several boats to honk angrily as he changed lanes (it had been so damn long since the cephalopod had driven himself. He was going to kill Pavi for being unavailable. Fucking Pavi!). "Every fucking thing. You know?"

"Um . . ." Patrick was beginning to think Squilliam and SpongeBob bonded over their similar style in driving. "Where did you say you got your license?" Sure, the starfish generally didn't give a shit about much. However, he'd prefer not to die.

"Paid off the driver's ed teacher," Squilliam said absentmindedly. "And don't change the subject."

"What—FUCK, a SEMI!" The boat swerved out of the way in time. "That was close. Um . . . what subject?"

"SpongeBob! Neptune, I thought you were in love with the guy. You'd think you'd remember."

"I remembered!" Patrick said angrily. "I just forgot, that's all."

"I don't know what's more circular," Squilliam remarked, "Your stomach or your logic."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," Squilliam took his hand off the steering wheel, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. "All I'm saying is, somehow that porous friend of yours has become my everything. And I hate how cliché that sounds, but—" He was cut off by yet another car nearly ramming into him . "Oh . . . I'm in the wrong lane, aren't I," He laughed as Patrick groaned fearfully.

After remedying his driving error, Squilliam continued, "All I'm saying is, is that how you feel, too?"

"Feel?" Patrick reiterated dumbly.

"Yes, feel. Like whenever you look at him, you've seen every monument worth seeing. And whenever you hear his voice, you've heard the most glorious symphony? And—"

"Ugh, you sound like a really bad Boys Who Cry song," Patrick felt like slamming his head against the dashboard to drown out the lameness of the millionaire. "Are you sure you're talking about SpongeBob?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Squilliam huffed. "I'm just more eloquent at expressing my feelings than you are. Typical of a poor person, hiding their emotions."

"I'm not hiding anything," The starfish argued. "I know I love SpongeBob."

"Oh really? How do you know?"

"He makes me horny."

Even nympho Squilliam was disgusted by that answer. "How poetic," He said scathingly.

"No! You didn't let me finish. He makes me horny, in my heart," Patrick grinned, satisfied.

"I think I'm going to throw up."

"No, see, what I mean is, I get all fluttery and hot and my heart beats really really fast, and—"

"No! I'm . . . oh FUCK, I'm gonna throw up!" Squilliam pulled the boat over, bolting out to the side of the road, dry heaving all the way.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Forty five minutes later, a very pale and empty stomached Squilliam lay in the back seat, the starfish now driving the vehicle.

"I don't think you're supposed to get car sick if you're the one driving," Patrick said for the fifth time, finally prompting Squilliam to reply.

"I'm not car sick. I'm pregnant."

Cue the (heh heh) pregnant pause.

"Pregnant?" Patrick almost swerved to the side of the road, shocked and appalled. And slightly excited, in an odd "OMG, a BABY!" sort of way. "Really?"

"No, not really," Squilliam sighed. "I can't believe you fell for that."

"Oh," Patrick drove a few more miles before speaking up once more. "So why were you barfing all over the road then?"

"I . . ." Should he tell? After all, if word got around about this, he'd be a laughing stock for sure. "I'm bulimic."

"Really? That's, like, where you're fat and make yourself puke to lose weight, right?"

"You actually knew that?"

"Yup. Fat people are so gross."

Squilliam blinked. "Um . . . yeah, they really are."

"So you're bulimic? Really? I mean, you're chubby, but not really fa—"

"I'm not fat at all, you dunce!" Then, sighing, "And I'm not bulimic, either." Squidward maybe, but certainly not Squilliam. "Besides, that was spontaneous nausea."

"Oh. Yeah, guess you weren't shoving a nail file down your throat."

"Of course not. I have more dignity than that!"

"And a fatty like you would probably eat the nail file."

"Yeah . . . considering how fat you are, you're really not so good at the fat jokes, are ya, tubs?"

"Why thank you!" Patrick was, as usual, not listening.

"Um . . . fine, whatever. Okay, the truth is this: I'm . . ." Time to actually tell the truth. "I have a nervous stomach, okay?" Squilliam sobbed as the words left his mouth; nouns, adjectives, and verbs exploding like some much vomit.

"Nervous stomach?" Patrick thought about this for a moment.

"Yes. Always have. And all those thoughts about my Spongie being tortured or killed . . . I just . . . I can't handle it!"

"So you puke?"

"Yes. Disgusting, isn't it. So undignified!"

Patrick shrugged. "Not really. I mean, it's kinda boring, to tell you the truth. The male pregnancy thing was funner. You should go with that next time you puke."

"Fuck you," Squilliam groaned, stomach clenching again. Ow. "I'm really scared and all you care about is men carrying fetuses."

"So what?"

"So what?"

"Yeah. So what?"

Squilliam had never been considered an uptight man, but this type of blatant 'who gives a fuck'ness was just ridiculous. "Fine, who CARES!" He snapped. Sarcastically, of course. For Squilliam did care. He wouldn't have puked if he hadn't.

"Exactly!" Patrick chirped. "That's the right attitude to have."

"Fine, fuck SpongeBob, right? Who cares if he's being dismembered as we speak? Who cares if someone's slicing him open and playing with his internal organs? Who cares if . . . if . . . if . . ." Squilliam sniffled, crying now, tears his only defense as he had nothing to puke up. "Patrick, just think of all the things that could be done to him. He's so weak and powerless! And I can't protect him. No one can protect him. Can't you drive any faster?"

"Um, Squilliam?"

"Don't argue with me! Go faster! NOW!" Images of SpongeBob's body, splattered and disemboweled, stiff and cold, ran in a loop through the millionaire's brain, bringing another round of nausea. "We won't get their fast enough! There's nothing we can fucking do!"

"Squilliam, um . . . we're here, I think."

"Huh?" He sat up, wiping sweat from his unibrow and blinking. Sure enough, they were parked directly in front of the building the kidnapper's instructions had informed them to go.

"Cute house," Patrick shut the engine off.

"How long have we been parked here?" Squilliam fumbled at the car door, only finding that the child lock was on.

"Ten minutes. I tried to tell you, but you were in the middle of ranting."

"You fucking—UGH!!!" The door wouldn't open, nor would Squilliam's wealth of insults release. Too angry to even cuss out the pink moron.

"Well, let's go save SpongeBob," Patrick walked out of the car, leaving Squilliam to knock irately at the locked car door.

"HEY!"

Patrick turned around, locking eyes with the still captive Squilliam. "Oh, sorry!" He chuckled, opening the door to allow the annoyed cephalopod escape. "With all the puking and crying, I thought you were a baby."

Moments later, Patrick was the only one crying, due to the sudden lump atop his pointed head. Squilliam could punch fairly hard, if angered enough.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Debonair.

The best word to describe the kidnapper. In his white tux, lounging in a chair and staring at the monitor.

He smiled, stroking his chin hair as he leaned forward. It was tough work, being an OC villain. Trying not to overstep the boundaries of Mary Suedom (or what was it called? Not Mary Sue for villains, surely).

The adjoining room was silent now, his little pet having cried himself mute. The suave gentleman leaned forward, glancing at the screen. No, not asleep, bruised sponge trembling on occasion, eyes gazing blankly ahead. Yes, perfect. Perfect face for his video debut.

The man flicked on the lights, flooding the room with sudden brightness and forcing the sponge to scream out, eyes squeezing shut at the first visual stimuli in over twenty four hours. Cameras whirred, catching his image for global broadcast.

Showtime.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"What the fuck kind of house is this?" Squilliam had always been a bit of a snob when it came to interior decorating. But this was downright ridiculous.

The other thing that was downright ridiculous was the amount of times "downright ridiculous" has been typed in this pathetic excuse at a parody. But back to the décor:

Television screens from wall to wall, the single room establishment decked out in plasma screen glory.

"Lame," Squilliam rolled his eyes.

"I like it!" Patrick clapped his hands gleefully. "I want to do my house like this."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Fatness and TV sorta go hand in hand, don't they?"

"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

Before Squilliam could deliver a witty rebuttal, the room dimmed, every TV set in the room flicking on in one magnificent motion.

"OOH! TV!"

Patrick was even more happy when the program on appeared to be . . . well . . .

"Oh my god! SpongeBob has a TV show!" Patrick couldn't help laughing softly, "That would be really weird. If there was a show called SpongeBob SquarePants, ya know? Can you imagin—"

"Patrick. Shut up." Squilliam was not impressed. Or rather, he was impressed. Impressed that the captor had gone to this much trouble. SpongeBob seemed to stare directly into the camera, splashing his tear stained eyes directly onto the multiple television sets for both Patrick and Squilliam to witness.

No escape. Squilliam tried backing away, trembling in guilt and rage and terror. "S-SpongeBob . . ."

Patrick laughed, "You stuttered!"

"Fatass, look at the screen!"

"Yeah, I know, it's SpongeBob." Pause as he realized. "Oh my god! SpongeBob!"

"H-help me . . ." SpongeBob was speaking suddenly, although his words sounded almost rehearsed. Words rehearsed, but the fear genuine. The anguish unscripted. "H-he . . . he said he'd let me go, but only if you bring the money to—"

"I'LL GET YOU OUT OF THERE!" Patrick smashed his body into one of the televisions, setting off a chain reaction, every screen blowing up nearly simultaneously. Shards of glass pummeled both males, although Squilliam barely felt the pain.

"You . . ." Squilliam's eyes were large, fiery. Not to mention pissed off. "You fucking IDIOT! He was going to tell us how to save him, and you went and broke the fucking—"

"I . . . I didn't mean to! Or I mean, I did mean to, but I just wanted to help."

"YOU'RE NOT HELPING AT ALL!" Squilliam barked. "All you've done is fuck everything up. Because of you, SpongeBob's probably going to be killed."

"But . . ."

"SHUT UP!"

Patrick's eyes teared up. "I-I was only trying to help."

"Fuck off, you waste of lard," The octopus turned away, wiping a line of blood off his nose, a small piece of glass wedged into his skin.

"But what about SpongeBob?"

"He'd probably be safe if it hadn't been for you!"

"What? NO! This w-wasn't my fault."

"No, it wasn't your fault SpongeBob was kidnapped," Squilliam agreed. "But it was your fault he was crying when I got home the other day. And it's your fault SpongeBob is still missing now. I would have found him ages ago if it hadn't been for you."

Patrick's multiple fat rolls jiggled as he cried. It was true. All of it. Even an idiot like Patrick couldn't deny the facts when they were forcefed in such a manner. "F-fine! I w-won't bother you ever again."

"GOOD!" Squilliam didn't turn around when the starfish ran out, maroon eyes fixated on the hole in the wall formed from the mini explosion. Damn fatass ruined everything. Every fucking thing! If he ever got his tentacles on him, he'd . . . he'd . . .

"Holy shit!" Tunnel? Squilliam rubbed his eyes, unable to truly believe it.

But it was true. Behind all those TV sets, there was a tunnel. A poorly dug one, but a tunnel nonetheless.

A tunnel to SpongeBob? Was the kidnapper this stupid? Or was this a work of genius?

Or just a dead end? Or a trap?

So many possibilities, but if there was even a slim chance that the crappily crafted dirt tunnel could lead to SpongeBob, Squilliam would take it.

"Patrick, I think I might actually owe you an apol—" He stopped, turning around to discover that the sea star had actually taken the hint earlier and left. Huh. Well, he'd track him down later. He hadn't come all this way to find Patrick, after all. He'd come here to find SpongeBob. His love.

So Squilliam had no choice, getting on his hands and knees in a most undignified manner and crawling through the tunnel.

A lamer fic would have written "tunnel of love", but I'll spare you that. You're welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I know this chapter is a lot shorter than the others. I'm sorry about that. It's honestly just filler until the next chapter (which SHOULD be more exciting, hopefully. And funnier). Anyway, hopefully the melodrama and angsting will provide lulz.**

"Your lover's coming to save you."

It was the first time he'd heard another voice in the entire time of his capture. Andit was a completely unfamiliar voice. Male, but unknown. Dark and depthless and completely horrifying, sending tingles through SpongeBob's weakened body.

"L-lover . . . ?" SpongeBob tested the word, scarcely believing it to be truth. So . . . so Squilliam was real. And if Squilliam was real, then that meant SpongeBob was real.

Which meant all of this—the pain, the darkness, the misery—all of it was incredibly, incredibly real.

SpongeBob began to sob once more. "Why are you doing this to me?" He managed to squeeze the words out between the spasms of his diaphragm. "W-what did I do to you?"

His captor, unseen in the darkened room (lights having gone out immediately after the scripted video broadcast), didn't respond.

"P-please let me go!"

"Shut him up," Another voice cut in, more familiar. Almost, almost familiar. SpongeBob strained to hear it once more, only to scream out at a sharp pain to his side.

"Harder," That almost familiar voice commanded, androgynous honey tones almost warm to the sponge. Anything that reminded him of home made him feel better, at least a little.

Whatever it was that had collided with him seconds before struck again, slicing into his tender flesh. SpongeBob's breath hitched, eyes rolling back into his head as he finally gained the strength to scream. Then again, another stab, blood pouring down his side. Hot and sticky against his wasting body.

The yellow sponge gasped for breath, tears falling almost silently now as his struggling slackened, body limp now.

"Wrap him up. No one's going to pay for a dead body."

Vaguely, SpongeBob felt his original captor bandage the wound, gestures almost tender for a few seconds.

"Night, kid," The first voice cooed into his auditory pore, before a playful tongue darted out, tasting at SpongeBob's clammy skin. The sponge didn't have the energy to even whimper, body tensing slightly at the contact of the salivating muscle. "Mmmm," The male kidnapper groaned, nibbling slightly at SpongeBob's skin. "Sponge cake."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Crawling through the dirt for two hours certainly put a damper on Squilliam's mood.

Alright, he hadn't been crawling for two hours. More like ten minutes. At the most. Still, it felt like so much longer. All this physical activity was disgusting. Almost as bad as manual labor.

"Motherfuck—UGH!" His robe hooked onto a root, tearing slightly. "FUCK!" How he wanted to punch something. But punching the tunnel only made his hand hurt. And as kinky as Squilliam tended to be, he was not a fan of masochism. Unless it was SpongeBob with a whip. Or electric prod. Not that his boyfriend was sadistic enough to ever deliver such pain to the cephalopod. Still, Squilliam would gladly take any punishment, as long as it was his beautiful boyfriend administering the abuse.

Another root tearing yet more of his once perfect clothing. "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck," Had he been searching for any other boy toy, he would have turned around now and gone home. Squilliam wasn't a caring guy. He should just leave now before . . . before . . .

Fuck, he was crying. Squilliam Fancyson was crying. Quietly, at least; sloppy crocodile tears slipping down his porcelain smooth face. How many times did he plan on crying today? He sighed, wiping his tears and leaving streaks of dirt on his face. Fuck. Now he was dirty and crying. He felt like one of those pathetic starving kids he always saw on those late night TV shows.

How Squilliam hated those starving kids. And how he hated appearing pathetic.

He also hated the idea of his beloved being tortured and exploited. Poor SpongeBob. Poor sweet, innocent, pure SpongeBob.

Fuck, Squilliam was crying even harder now. What had happened to him? When had he become such a sappy moron? If this was what love did to someone, then he wanted no part in it.

That was a lie. Squilliam had never been happier until the moment SpongeBob had come into his life. That perky little sponge was the sun upon which Planet Squilliam revolved. He was sucked into his orbit. There was no escape, the magnetism of their bodies too undeniable.

So he crawled on, beckoned forward at the prospect of saving his solar system's center from cataclysmic self destruction. SpongeBob was a star, after all (well, a sponge. But still). And it was too early for a supernova. No explosions now, no. The hot rescue sex would be explosive enough without star death thrown into the mix.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Fine, fuck you!" Patrick yelled as another boat passed him on the road. Why wouldn't anyone pick him up? He'd been hitchhiking all this time and not one person had offered to drive him home. Not one!

People in Rock Bottom must be incredibly rude.

The starfish sighed, sliding down to the road and crying softly. Tears seemed like an appropriate response.

"S-SpongeBob's going to die because of m-me," He held his face in his hands, blubbering like a baby. Squilliam had been right. This was all his fault.

It hurt enough that he was in love with SpongeBob with no gratification.

But to actually be the cause of his best friend's annihilation? That hurt to the point of numbness, to the point where his body physically shut off neurons, unable to handle anymore sensation.

Patrick whimpered, bodacious body trembling with each heartbreaking revelation. Throughout their entire friendship, all Pat had done was hurt the trusting boy. Clever lies spoken to belittle and crush. Crushing his crush. And now . . . now . . .

Was he dead already? Could he be? Patrick moaned, physically ill now. His best friend couldn't die. It wasn't possible, wasn't allowed. Wasn't . . . couldn't . . .

Patrick deserved to die. Patrick deserved punishment. Patrick deserved hatred and pain and humiliation.

Not SpongeBob. Not his best friend.

But it was too late now, wasn't it? Too fucking late. Patrick had always known he was a lousy friend, but he never thought their friendship would prove fatal.

"Hey kid, you alright?"

Patrick wiped his eyes on the back of his arm, red rimmed eyes rising slowly to eye the truck driver. No Rock Bottom accent, oddly enough. "N-no," The sea star sniffled.

"Aww, what's wrong?"

"I killed my best friend."

The truck driver blinked, though he didn't drive off. "That's terrible," He said finally, letting his eyes fall over Patrick's body. So large, so bountiful. Not so easy to dispose of, but the necrophiliac fun would more than make up for it. "Did you need a ride?"

"Yes," Patrick stood up, approaching the truck morosely.

"It's a shame about your friend," The man said conversationally. "How'd you off him?"

Patrick stood still, hand locked on the truck door and admiring the paint job. Blue. The same shade of blue as SpongeBob's eyes. The starfish's lower lip began to shake again, crying once more. Dead. Fucking dead. His best friend was dead.

Or was he?

"Hey!" The truck driver yelled angrily as Patrick ran off, fat ass jiggling as he did so.

If SpongeBob wasn't dead, then maybe Patrick could save him. If he saved him, that would make up for all the other shit, right? True, Pat didn't know where SpongeBob was being held, but maybe if he went back to that room from before, just maybe . . . maybe he'd somehow figure something out. It was a stretch; after all, Patrick wasn't known for his cognitive abilities. But maybe the adrenaline rush would carry his mind to amazing places.

And if he couldn't figure anything out, Pat could always use a piece of glass from one of the television screens and slit his wrists.

Unrequited love brings out a starfish's inner emo.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Thanks to everyone reviewing. It really means a lot. And I'm sorry-I know I promised this chapter would be exciting, but I just . . . I don't have the energy today. But this fic is almost done (and I promise, I actually know what's going on now). So expect a more exciting upload tomorrow. Hopefully. I'll try to live up to the hype (not that there's actually any hype). Anyway, hope you get a laugh out of this. Or some kind of emotion. Just hope it entertains.**

There was no light at the end of the tunnel. Just an anticlimactic one foot drop. One minute, Squilliam was crawling through tightly packed, slightly moist dirt, the next he . . . well . . . he wasn't. He tumbled out of the tunnel, still in the dark, and landed on plush carpeting.

A bit odd that someone would put carpeting in a room that had a tunnel sticking out of the wall. However, just this once, Squilliam didn't give two shits about the décor.

Only one shit. It only slightly disturbed him that someone would have a tunnel in their house. Then again, he was dealing with people that kidnapped innocent little gay sponges, so really, there was no logic here.

Several options presented themselves, but Squilliam jumped straight to the . . . well . . . probably the wrong one.

"I'm here, bitches! Try and stop me!"

In retrospect, maybe that WASN'T the smart thing to do in a dark room owned by a ferocious kidnapper. The millionaire mentally slapped himself. How could he have done something so stupid? The captors would just take him out now. Murder him, then feed his dead body to SpongeBob. Then kill SpongeBob.

And that would make Squilliam the loser. NO! Losing was not in the master plan. Besides, the thought of his darling little Spongie having to eat a corpse before death was just too much to bear.

He held his breath, waiting in the pitch black for a bullet or a knife, or possibly a screwdriver (not the drink, but the tool). Just something to dart out and end his more-than-satisfying, multibillion dollar existence.

But nothing happened. Squilliam inched his body across a wall, arm brushing against a light switch. Might as well shed some light on the situation, right? Again, he was annoyed at himself. His fear was bringing out the worst of his cliché usage.

"FUCK!" Too bright! Squilliam squeezed his eyes shut, retinas scorched. Crawling through the dark for so long had certainly lowered his capacity for visual stimuli. Hesitantly he allowed his eyelids to flutter open, wincing once more. It hurt so fucking much, as though Neptune himself were shoving his massive cock into his pupils (only the god of the sea had the ability to fuck both pupils at once) (although the ability to fuck pupils implied that Neptune actually had a rather shriveled up, puny penis) (alright, that last parenthesis was sacrilegious, even for Squilliam). He wished he could just pay someone to see for him, but that was physically impossible, no matter how much money one has. So finally, he just sucked up it, opening his eyes and gradually growing accustomed to the sudden light.

Now to find that punk ass bitch that stole his delicious little sponge cake.

Yet, much like the end of the tunnel, this proved anti-climactic as well. All that eyeball fucking with light seemed to be for nothing.

No creepy kidnapper.

No instruments of torture.

And, worst of all, no SpongeBob.

In fact, other than the tunnel in the wall (which, really, that was some shitty planning there), it was a completely ordinary living room. Middle class (or poor as fuck, as Squilliam defined it), with outdated 1970s furniture. But not the room of an abductor. Unless kidnappers frequently put plastic wrap on their furniture, which Squilliam highly doubted.

Had this all been a set up? Had the kidnapper sent him to a completely ordinary house? But then, what of the tunnel? Did normal poor people have tunnels in their houses? Squidward didn't have a tunnel in his home, at least as far as Squilliam knew. And Squidward was one of the poorest people Squilliam new.

Then again, SpongeBob was, monetarily wise, poor as well. Or had been until he'd shacked up with Squill. But the unibrowed man refused to think of his boyfriend as such. SpongeBob wasn't poor. He was . . . he was low maintenance. It was one of the many things he admired about the boy. His disinterest in material possessions was absolutely touching.

Oh, how he missed him. But no, he wouldn't cry. Not again. He had to focus, had to remember his carefree fuck-you grin before facing the kidnappers.

If only this hadn't been such a dead-end. What was the point of a fuck-you grin if there was no one to see it?

What was the point of living if he had no one to share his life with?

Squilliam let out a shaky breath, roaming the small space. Anything to distract him from his depressing philosophy debates. Was it even worth checking the rest of the house? After all, what if the real occupants were here? It would be just like a kidnapper to get Squilliam busted for breaking and entering someone else's home. To send him to some unwilling, unknowing old person's home, occupants calling 911 on a cephalopod that just wanted to retrieve his lost lover. Fuck, he could not get arrested! Rich people did not belong in prison. They'd tear him apart.

No one was worth jail time. No one. Not even . . . not even . . .

How could he fight it? SpongeBob was worth prison. He was worth so many things. Squilliam would give up all the money in the world (which was slightly less than he had in his bank account) in order to keep that innocent boy safe. He'd . . . hell, Squilliam would even be bottom for SpongeBob, if that's what the naïve boy wanted. He'd take a cock up the ass for SpongeBob, and that was saying a lot for the dominant octopus.

Squilliam blinked, a splotch of red on the beige carpet catching his eye. Blood? No, it couldn't be. Surely it couldn't be blood. He trembled, leaning down to take a closer look.

No, not blood. Not any type of fluid. It was cloth. He scooped the red silk up, gasping as he finally recognized.

SpongeBob's tie.

Yes, it WAS. It was his boyfriend's tie, alright. Which meant he WAS in this plastic wrapped, tunneled house. But where? It was time to think like a criminal (even if crime was so trashy and blue collar). Surely they would hide him somewhere out of harm's way, where no one could look into the window and see. After all, whenever Squilliam was feeling extra kinky, and felt like chaining someone up, he lead them somewhere dark and secluded.

Somewhere like . . . the basement! Yes, Squilliam's entire basement was a massive S&M torture chamber. Not that he'd do anything like that without the slave's permission, of course. Hell, he was almost afraid of bringing the subject up to SpongeBob. Didn't want to scare away the naïve boy with mentioning of sadistic desires. That was beside the point, though. The kidnapper had SpongeBob in the basement. That was the only explanation that made any sense. After all, what other room would they have him in? The kitchen? Ha! What kind of douche bag keeps a prisoner in the kitchen?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The captor was the kind of douche bag to keep a prisoner in the kitchen.

The man wasn't sure why he'd been instructed to move SpongeBob from the relative safety of the basement into the vulnerable kitchen area.

But that was what the captor did. Followed orders. Never leader, always follower. Easier to do that way.

Still, that was no reason he couldn't have a little fun with the blindfolded sponge, now, did it?

He chuckled, stroking the small male's face and causing him to whimper softly. "You're pretty cute when you cry," The man said lowly, letting his fingers trail down, loosening the buttons on the sponge's shirt. "That's the reason you're not gagged, you know. I love your crying. It's absolutely precious."

He paused, waiting for some sort of retort. Nothing, like always. Even kidnapped, SpongeBob wasn't rude, wasn't sarcastic. Cried and begged, but didn't kick or scream. Such submission was absolutely delightful to the gruff male. He'd never known such obedience.

Then again, the captor himself had always been an order taker. With Squilliam and with the person in charge of this operation now.

But at this moment, HE was in charge. And he could do whatever he wanted to SpongeBob, other than murder, of course. But then, why would he want to kill the darling boy? Why kill when he could internally maim and humiliate?

"I think you need a nice spanking," The man drawled, smiling at the blush taking over SpongeBob's face at that. Ah, he remembered. The abductor grinned, enjoying the twitching in the boy's from, as though he could escape his binding. "Although I bet your ass is still sore from earlier."

"Please don't do that again," SpongeBob quivered, arms fastened above his head, makeshift bindings attached to the ceiling fan. A stronger male probably could have gotten away easily, but not the weak sponge. "Please . . ." Unlike his experienced lover, SpongeBob was not a particularly kinky boy. He was a cuddler, a caresser, a spooner, a love maker. He wasn't someone who was spanked and gagged, wasn't anyone's slave. He submitted willingly, not through humiliation.

Not that he'd be opposed to such treatment from Squilliam. That would . . . that would be different. Because SpongeBob knew his boyfriend would stop if it made him uncomfortable. And it wouldn't really hurt.

But this man . . . this man hurt him. And took pleasure in hurting him. Completely hurting him. His mind, his body, his spirit. SpongeBob was fragmenting, falling apart at this man's hands. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Would Squilliam be able to love him if he was broken?

Did it matter? Would SpongeBob even survive this?

Probably not. He groaned softly, lowering his face to his chest.

"Does it embarrass you?"

SpongeBob nodded, a few tears leaking beneath the blindfold.

"Does it hurt?"

Another nod.

"Then I think I'm going to have to do it again, dear."

"Oh please, d-don't!" SpongeBob squirmed, crying harder as his captor's hands stopped at his shirt, moving down to his pants. "N-no-oWW!"

The man slapped SpongeBob sharply across the face. "Shut up! Quit trying to fight me, you little bitch." Then, more genial, "I've decided not to spank you after all."

SpongeBob was quiet, catching his breath. Really? He lifted his face up, still sightless. Why the sudden change in plans? Was it stupid of SpongeBob to be getting his hopes up? He couldn't help it, always believing in the inherent good of all beings.

Maybe he'd let him go. Maybe SpongeBob would survive this. Walk free. No, run. Sprint back home and forget this. Scrub it away, cleanse himself. And never have to deal with this experience ever again.

"I just want to play with you. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"What . . . w-what k-kind of playing?" He didn't like to feeling of hands clutching at his pants like that. But . . . well . . . he couldn't fight anyway. And maybe . . . maybe the kidnapper wouldn't try anything. Maybe . . .

"HEY!" A second voice again. But this time, SpongeBob could have sworn . . . could it have been . . .?

"Oh, hello, Squilliam. We've been expecting you," The captor didn't bother turning around, still working his hands at SpongeBob's waistband.

Squilliam froze for a moment, eyes moving from the kidnapper to his blindfolded boyfriend. In the kitchen, just as he hadn't expected. Squilliam had been looking for the basement door, and instead discovered this little scene. These must be an amateur kidnapper. Turning back, he finally discovered the source of his angsting.

. . .

Well.

This wasn't what he'd expected at all. Then again, Squilliam had never been very good at guessing the villain in those murder mystery shows.

"PAVI?!?!?!?!?"

His personal assistant? The man who'd worked by his side for nearly ten years now?

The man Squilliam had lost his precious virginity to? Well, okay, not really. But Pavi had always given incredibly good blowjobs. Knew how to work that small mouth of his.

Pavi . . . no. No, why the fuck would Pavi do something like this? He was paid . . . relatively well, considering. And he hadn't seemed completely heartbroken when Squilliam had stopped fucking him.

Besides, Pavi was an excellent speller. An English major, a grammar Nazi. Not the kind of douche to send such moronic ransom letters—right?

"Pavi, what is this? Let go of him! You had no right!" He started advancing towards his soon-to-be-fired personal assistant, tentacles clenching and unclenching in anticipation. He'd destroy the lithe fish, he certainly would. Stealing Squilliam's boyfriend, betraying his boss.

"I had every right," Pavi said simply, unbuckling SpongeBob's belt.

"Why would you do this?" Motives didn't really matter, but Squilliam had to speak as he advanced on the male. Why he wasn't just rushing and attacking . . . well . . . Squilliam had more class than that.

"I wanted to make sure I had a job lined up before I quit you."

"Huh?" Quit? Job? Squilliam had been spending too much time with that bloated starfish. He felt as though all his thoughts were scrambled, five minutes behind. Pavi's words held no significance in his mind.

His mind whirred into Technicolor sharpness, however, at the dull click of a gun cocked at the back of his head.

"Wanna meet my new boss, sir?" Pavi chirped.

Squilliam shuddered, daring not to turn around at the press of metal to the back of his cranium. A gun. He had a gun held to his head. A fucking gun! Who DARED hold a gun to Squilliam Fancyson's head? This would not do. This was just too—

Who ever held the gun smacked him across the head, knocking the cephalopod to the ground. He groaned, trying to sit up but unable to gain complete control of his limbs. He was acutely aware of the blood flowing in his body, whirring and circulating and drowning out almost all sound. Dully, he was aware of both Pavi and the unseen second kidnapper laughing. And, still dully, he was able to turn his attention to SpongeBob. Beautiful even blindfolded. Beautiful even as Pavi removed the sponge's pants. Beautiful even in his muffled screaming-not muffled through gagging, but muffled because all sound to the octopus was muffled. All sight, all sound. Muffled. Muted. Blind.

Fading to black, like a horrible late night B horror movie.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Fucked up shit in this chapter (but since it's a parody, fucked up is allowed, right?). But only two more chapters to go (two at the most; might be able to wrap it up in one).**

"Unblindfold him," There was that voice again. The eerily familiar, oddly comforting one. SpongeBob whimpered some more, vision coming back as Pavi removed his blindfold.

Pavi . . . no, his voice wasn't the one. Where was the second captor? SpongeBob glanced around, eyes faltering on the crumpled body on the ground.

"S-Squilliam?" He blinked, scarcely believing the sight. "Squilliam . . . n-no!" Squilliam couldn't be dead. No. Not Squilliam. Not Squilliam! SpongeBob couldn't form his thoughts correctly, too shocked by the vision.

"Yes," Pavi smiled, patting the sponge on the head.

"Y-you killed him!" How could this be happening? Squilliam . . . dead? And it was all SpongeBob's fault. Blue eyes filled with tears, chest heaving as he began to sob. His one chance at happiness, at love, gone. And it was all SpongeBob's fault.

He yelped as Pavi slapped him across the face again, leaving a mark this time.

"He's not dead, you adorable little moron. Just sleeping."

Of course he didn't believe that. SpongeBob may have been incredibly innocent and trusting, but he was not stupid. The blood oozing out of Squilliam's skull proved that this was no simple nap.

But the slight rise and fall of his boyfriend's chest proved that he was still living. He wasn't alright, but he was alive. And that was enough for now.

"D-don't hurt him," SpongeBob sniffled, eyes large as he looked up at Pavi.

"It's not up to me." Pavi flicked a strand of dark hair out of his face, smiling grimly at the confused sponge.

"Then who's it up to?"

"Me."

SpongeBob turned his head, only to find a gun pointed right at his nose. He shuddered, moving his gaze up to discover . . .

Discover . . .

"W-what? No. Why would you . . .?" Surprise didn't begin to define SpongeBob's state of mind. Shock, dismay, disgust, fear, betrayal . . . all were too low in feeling. Coupled with the unhealthy sensation of a weapon wielded in one's face . . .

This was not a good day.

"Why . . . why are you . . .?" What was this person doing here? SpongeBob couldn't formulate coherent thoughts, still grappling with this development. Pavi . . . Pavi hadn't been a shock. After all, SpongeBob barely knew the guy. But this . . . this was . . .

They knew each other! Fairly well, or so SpongeBob had once believed. Saw each other at least weekly, usually more. Why . . . why . . . "Why?"

Had to voice his doubts. Had to voice his fears. Had to voice whatever it was he was feeling. Had to voice something, lest the silence kill him before the gun had a chance.

"Why?" An echo, in that voice he once thought he knew. "I'll tell you why, you little fucker. You've made my life miserable. You and that damn boyfriend of yours."

"Squilliam?" What had the octopus ever done? SpongeBob hadn't even known the two knew each other.

"That's right. But I don't have time for flashbacks right now."

"W-why not?" SpongeBob trembled, vision blurring as the tip of the gun pressed closer.

The kidnapper chuckled. "Dear boy, did you really think you would survive this?"

Yes.

No matter how low his thoughts had gone, no matter how much he had entertained the fact that he probably wouldn't survive, SpongeBob hadn't actually expected death. Love was supposed to keep one strong, wasn't it? Keep one safe.

SpongeBob couldn't die. He was too young! Too pure, too innocent. Too many adjectives, none of which added up to fatality. Yes, they said that the good died young, but he'd always thought that was more of an expression, more of a symbol of losing one's innocence.

He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not with his boyfriend passed out on the ground a few feet away and his ass still sore from being spanked by Pavi a few hours before. His tragedy felt like a comedy, and the lines of reality were fading.

There was just him and a gun. The barrel now pressed to his face, cold metal on hot, sweating flesh. SpongeBob, tied up, defenseless-ever defenseless-had nothing but his words to get him out of this. Where was his voice? He'd never had trouble speaking before; why couldn't he do it now? Why were his vocal chords malfunctioning so?

A shaky breath, eyes breaking away from the weapon and up to the woman that spelled his destruction.

"B-but I don't wanna die, Mrs. Puff!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Patrick hadn't realized it was possible to call 911 collect.

He'd worried they wouldn't accept the charges, even if the incoming name WAS "help! My best friend is gonna get raped, tortured, and/or killed in the next few minutes, if he hasn't already, by the way, this is Patrick Star".

He'd worried he wouldn't be able to get the words out. Or that he wouldn't be able to give adequate directions.

But it turned out Rock Bottom was a small enough town that Patrick's meager description was good enough.

That was Patrick in a nutshell. Good enough. Should have been his middle name: Patrick "Good Enough" Star. Not glorious, not horrendous. Just good enough.

Not good enough for SpongeBob. But good enough for . . . well . . .

Never mind. Patrick wasn't good enough. He never would be good enough. For anyone. Or anything. All he'd ever be was the fat, idiotic best friend of a much more likable guy. He was comic relief, not romantic lead material. Giggles, not snuggles.

Even this little rescue mission wouldn't end well. Patrick was almost sure of it. Squilliam would receive all the credit for bravado and Patrick would be credited with providing the occasional chuckle. Squilliam would be viewed as crafty, cunning, and caring. Patrick would be viewed as fat, faggish, and funny(ish).

Squilliam would get SpongeBob.

Patrick would have nothing but his pillow to hold close tonight. A pillow and his fantasies, but nothing more. Never more than that.

Because that was his duty. And he'd dug his own grave long ago, setting himself up for this second-rate life. Befriending those who were pure of heart and just . . . just . . . what word could he think of to describe SpongeBob?

Perfect?

But that was too simplistic a word. SpongeBob was perfect, and then some. SpongeBob was . . . well, he was SpongeBob! Lovable and endearing and . . . well, maybe a little quirky, but that only made him that much more charming.

His best friend outshined him so much. Who would ever notice Patrick when SpongeBob was around? Hell, now that Squilliam was around, SpongeBob didn't even notice Patrick.

And if no one noticed him, who was to say he even existed? If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?

If the hero dies, what happens to the sidekick?

Without SpongeBob, Patrick's entire definition was skewered to the point of nothingness. Patrick may no longer be included in SpongeBob's definition of self, but that little sponge sure was wrapped up in Patrick's self image. It was how he defined himself: HI, I'm Patrick, SpongeBob's best friend.

He couldn't lose SpongeBob. If he lost SpongeBob, he'd lose himself.

Selfish motives for an altruistic goal. Yes, that was Patrick. He was in love with SpongeBob because it was a fancy form of self love. He wanted to save SpongeBob to save himself, in some symbolic way.

Patrick stood in the room full of broken glass, looking around for a hint. Squilliam was gone, of course. The sea star wondered where he'd gone. Surely the octopus hadn't given up on SpongeBob already. Patrick was the quitter, not Squilliam. Patrick gave up on everything, and everyone gave up on Patrick. There was no faith in this world.

Only SpongeBob.

SpongeBob was faith. SpongeBob was the only shot as some dignity and hope in this world, and Patrick wouldn't allow him to be lost. No, stupid or not, Patrick knew better than to give up on SpongeBob. That crazy kid was the only thing worth waking up for in the morning. Maybe he wouldn't wake up next to SpongeBob physically, but just knowing SpongeBob was somewhere in the world, safe, loved, warm . . . it was enough to make Patrick feel a little better inside. At least SpongeBob could be happy, even if Patrick was left feeling miserable and hollow.

Surprisingly enough, it didn't take Patrick long to discover the tunnel. Or long to piece together the fact that Squilliam had most likely gone this route. And, if Squilliam went through the tunnel, that probably meant SpongeBob—

He didn't need to finish the thought, squeezing his large body through the hole. He had to find SpongeBob.

He had to find himself.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Guilty? No, Pavi did not feel guilty. The sponge may have been cute, but he certainly wasn't worth getting a conscious over.

Tired of taking orders? No, Pavi enjoyed being directed. Anyone could take control. It took real class to sit back and let others lead.

Then what?

Honestly?

Pavi was horny.

Horny and an exhibitionist. He wanted to take SpongeBob, and he wanted Squilliam to watch.

He could care less if Mrs. Puff watched. The fact that she would be there as well was just an added bonus.

"Um . . . ma'am?"

Mrs. Puff sighed, turning her face to glance at her assistant, without taking the gun from SpongeBob's head. "What is it now, Pavi?"

"Well, it seems kinda stupid to just kill him after all this time. I mean, I thought you wanted to hurt them."

"I do," She drawled. "Which is why I'm killing them."

"No, I know. And I think that's a great plan and everything, but . . . well . . . there are so many other ways we can fuck with them before killing, ya know?"

"Oh? Such as?"

"Well . . ." Pavi licked his lips, raising an eyebrow. "Like fucking 'em."

"You just want to get into SpongeBob's pants, don't you," The puffer fish looked a bit disturbed by this. True, she'd had thoughts before of humiliating and destroying her pupil (and really, wasn't that what this was? Humiliation and destruction). But never to that extent.

Rape would involve sexual intercourse. And if SpongeBob screwed anything like he drove . . . well . . . Puff wanted no part in that.

"Well . . . yeah, mostly. But just think of it. Me fucking SpongeBob, with Squilliam watching," As if cued, Squilliam's still form groaned softly.

Puff started to smile then. "Hmm . . . I think I see your point. Make their last moments on Earth truly miserable."

"Yeah, yeah! Exactly!"

"But . . . but why?" SpongeBob quivered, looking up at his teacher in fear. "I never . . . I n-never d-did anything to you."

This made no sense. There was no motivation. Despite brief explanations from earlier, SpongeBob was completely in the dark about this; besides, those explanations could hardly be described as thorough.

"I hate you, SpongeBob."

"N-no," SpongeBob shook his head, horrified at those words. Why did she hate him? She couldn't possibly . . . "I-I know I wasn't a very good driver, b-but—"

"This isn't about driving, you little faggot!" The words dripped venom in the silent room. "This isn't about you at all, Sponge. Sure, I hate you. You made my life a living hell. But no, this has nothing to do with you. And everything to do with—" She shut up, grinding her foot into Squilliam's side. The millionaire sat up, screaming, startled by the sudden pain.

"What . . .?" He turned his head, moaning at the pain as blood continued to dribble down. He blinked, looking up.

Mrs. Puff.

Fuck. Squilliam's eyes widened. "What are YOU doing here?" He could handle Pavi's betrayal, but . . . Mrs. Puff?

"Y-you two don't even know each other, though!" SpongeBob cut in. This didn't make sense. His driving teacher and his boyfriend were connected in some way? And not just connected, but hooked up in a manner that proved murder as the only possible way out?

Oh what a tangled web we weave. SpongeBob's viewpoint of the world was chipping away one bit at a time. Pavi trying to rape him, Mrs. Puff trying to kill him . . . what was next? Past relationships coming to light?

Mrs. Puff smiled, fiddling with the gun in her hands. "Why yes, SpongeBob. Squilliam and I go way back."

Squilliam looked down, unable to hold SpongeBob's gaze as the blonde fish continued speaking.

"You see, Squilliam and I . . ."

"Just spit it out," Squilliam hissed, unable to take much more. If she had to destroy SpongeBob, might as well do it quick.

Poor SpongeBob. He really deserved better than Squilliam. The octopus sighed, knowing the next sentence would hurt his boyfriend deeply. With anyone else, it wouldn't be a huge deal, but with SpongeBob . . . well . . . he wouldn't take it well.

Then again, they'd probably both be dead soon anyway. Did it really matter how badly they were hurt beforehand?

"Squilliam's my ex boyfriend."

SpongeBob blinked, taking that in for a moment, before screaming in a manic, "holy fuck, this can't be happening" sort of way.

Yeah, today was definitely the worst day of SpongeBob's life thus far.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: The Puff/Squid thing belongs to Band8PGeek. In fact, this whole fic wouldn't exist if it wasn't for her. So . . . yeah. She's awesome. Anyway, I dunno if this chapter was actually M rated, but I figured I might as well bump the rating up now, just to be safe. Let me know if you think it should be T. I'm really not sure.**

"She was Squidward's first crush," Squilliam was speaking quickly, repeating words, stumbling over . . . well . . . not lies. He was actually telling the truth, something he usually didn't resort to unless pushed.

It was hard to lie while being scrutinized by those baby blue irises. Bathed in the light of his holiness and all that.

Holiness. Fitting, considering SpongeBob was full of hol—no, keep it together, Fancyson. He had to word this right. Looking for the right words, not the right pores. Fuck, it was hard being serious, even in a dangerous situation like this.

"W-what does Squidward have to do with any of this?" SpongeBob's voice was higher than usual, eyes pale through the film of moisture. He couldn't even wipe his tears with the ropes binding him in place.

"Yes Squilliam. What DOES Squidward have to do with any of this?"

"Nothing! Everything . . . something. I don't know!" Squilliam looked at SpongeBob pleadingly. "I didn't know you." That didn't even appear to be what was troubling SpongeBob, but Squilliam felt the need to get this point across. He did not know SpongeBob while dating Mrs. Puff.

"Well, obviously not. Was SpongeBob even ALIVE then?" Mrs. Puff was a bit oblivious to the sponge's age. Still, even if he HAD been alive, surely he would have been incredibly young (which was saying something, since he still was incredibly young, at least by Mrs. Puff's standards).

"H-how old ARE you, Squilliam?"

Fuck. Surely SpongeBob wouldn't be put off by his boyfriend's age, would he? The sponge wasn't that shallow, surely. And surely Squilliam would stop saying surely.

"T-twenty nine!" Then, amending, "Thirty one. Or two. Um . . ." It had been so long since he'd actually told someone his actual age. What year was he born? Um . . .

"He's thirty five," Pavi cut in, grinning at his boss.

"Thirty five . . .? But you told me you were—"

"I know. And I still can't believe you thought I was only twenty four. I mean, look at me!"

"You l-look younger than that." SpongeBob smiled softly. Smiling through his tears. One of the many skills SpongeBob possessed.

"Aww, really?" Another reason Squilliam adored that sponge. Always feeding his ego in just the right dosage. SpongeBob should have been throwing insults at all these lies, but instead he was trying to reassure Squilliam.

"I-I don't care how old you are. I love you no matter how old you are. I just . . . I-I don't like being lied to," SpongeBob sniffled.

"Aw, Spongie, don't cry, alright? I won't lie to you anymore, I promise."

That was probably a lie, too. An unintentional lie, but it was a promise waiting to be broken. Squilliam lied on a fairly regular basis. Not as much to SpongeBob as he did with the others in his life, but still. Squilliam wouldn't be the man he was if he didn't tell a few white lies. Or black lies. Or gray lies. Or any color lie, really.

"That's right, SpongeBob. Squilliam's never going to tell another lie again," Mrs. Puff smiled, aiming her gun for the octopus's head once more. "In fact, he won't be saying much ever again."

"N-no! Mrs. Puff, w-why do you have to k-kill him? J-just because you love him d-doesn't mean—"

"Love?" Mrs. Puff cackled in glee. "I hate Squilliam more than I hate you. This has nothing to do with that. Or the fact that he broke my fucking heart." Liar. It had everything to do with that. But if there was one thing Mrs. Puff hated more than Squilliam, it was being perceived as pathetic.

"Are we ever going to hear the story?" Pavi asked. Curiosity would be his downfall one day.

"Oh fuck it, fine. YOU tell the story, Squilliam. You're the storyteller here." Like hell she was going to tell. She'd botch up the details, where as Squilliam was capable of embellishment. Besides, the words from his mouth would hurt SpongeBob more than a simple account from Mrs. Puff.

The octopus growled, "I don't think I need to—"

"I'm holding a gun, Squilliam. Don't try to fuck with me. I won't hesitate to shoot that god awful unibrow off your face."

He groaned softly, hand subconsciously going up and rubbing at his single eyebrow nervously. There was no way to spare SpongeBob the truth in this case. Damn. "I'm just trying to decide if this should be a fade out flashback kind of deal or a verbal storytelling kind of thing."

"Just tell the fucking story," Mrs. Puff snarled, teeth grinding together and pistol quivering in her fin.

"Er . . . right. Well, the thing is, Squiddy wasn't always the faggot you know him as." Then, chuckling, "Well, okay, he was ALWAYS a faggot. But back in high school, he was more of a . . . um . . . bisexual?"

"Get on with the story." A shake of metal to prove her impatience.

"Well . . . he had a bit of a . . . um . . . crush on Puffy here. It was a pretty innocent thing, ya know? Leaving flowers in her locker, writing anonymous love notes, jacking off to her while in the boys' bathroom, that sort of thing. And the only reason I know this is because he was idiotic enough to tell me about it." Squidward had always put too much faith in Squilliam. At least at the beginning of their frenemy relationship.

"Wait," SpongeBob cut in. "I . . . I'm sorry Squilliam, but . . . um . . . d-doesn't Squidward hate you?" He felt a bit guilty for pointing this out. After all, he didn't want to hurt his boyfriend's feelings.

"He was only mildly annoyed with me back then," Squilliam waved his tentacle dismissively. "He didn't start loathing me for awhile."

"He didn't start loathing you until after you fucked me," Mrs. Puff growled.

"Right. Way to ruin the story by jumping to the end," Peasants knew nothing about the art of storytelling these days.

SpongeBob felt a bit sick to his stomach after that. Not because of the ruining of the story, but because his boyfriend had had sex with the sponge's driving teacher.

It didn't get more nauseating than that.

"In the driver's ed boat, yeah," Squilliam smiled to himself. "Good times." Not that it was spectacular sex. Still, in adolescence, any sex seemed like good sex. And Puff had been pretty flexible back in her day.

"My first time, you bastard. My first fucking time, on my first day on the job." She'd been hired on as assistant to the driver's education teacher. And instead of educating the other students, she'd spent her first day in the backseat of that cheap boat, getting her fill of Fancyson, like every other whore that attended their school.

She had to admit, at the time it had been splendid.

But looking back . . .

"You broke my fucking heart, Squilliam! I thought what we had was something special, but—"

"It wasn't personal!" Squilliam said, maroon eyes wide. "I was just using you to get to Squidward. And," He laughed to himself, "It worked. He completely fell apart after I stole his first love from him."

"You used me! I thought you were in love with me, but you stole my innocence and destroyed any hope I had of a real romance," Mrs. Puff's words, as cheesy and pathetic as they were, were spoken with complete sincerity. Sincerity and hysteria. It wasn't a good combination, especially with the gun in her hand.

"I . . . um . . . c-come on, it was just for fun, alright? And it was awhile ago. No need to get all upset about it," He laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

Wasn't working.

Mrs. Puff actually lowered the weapon then, a smirk crossing her lips. "Squilliam, why are you even with a guy like SpongeBob?" Changing the subject to get back to her premeditated murder.

Squilliam hadn't expected that question. Which was odd, since Patrick had asked similar questions earlier in the day.

"Um . . . what?"

"Why are you with SpongeBob? I mean, let's face it, you could have had a better looking boyfriend."

SpongeBob looked down then, face turning red. It was true, wasn't it? He wasn't exactly Mr. Handsome.

"I-I think he's cute!" Squilliam said quickly. What the fuck was she trying to imply?

"Cute, maybe," Mrs. Puff analyzed the yellow boy then, as though seeing him for the first time. "Cute at best. He's NOT handsome, though. And he's sure as hell not beautiful."

"Oh please, like YOU'RE a beauty queen, Puffy."

She raised the gun slightly then. "Watch it, Fancyson."

He gulped, "S-sorry. Um . . ."

"But fine, I'll give you cute. He's cute. In a childish, awkward sort of way."

Childish. It always came down to that. Why did the world view him as a kid? SpongeBob sighed. Even if they survived this, Squilliam would no longer want him. So was surviving even worthwhile?

"I don't think he's childish," Squilliam said slowly. "Innocent, yes. But he has a job. A house. A functioning unit of friends and loved ones. He's capable of independence."

All things Squilliam himself didn't have. Well, he had the money and house. But not the independence. Squilliam depended on other people, and not just his assistance. He would be nothing without his followers, constantly stroking his ego, keeping his fragile esteem buoyant.

Fuck, he was dependent on SpongeBob, though his boyfriend didn't realize that. Squilliam needed his lover more than he could express verbally. And his inability to communicate only proved his own insignificance in comparison with the overly verbose sponge.

"If anything, I'm childish." Fuck, this was a painful day for Squilliam's ego. "And he deserves better."

A very painful day for his ego indeed. It would be one thing if the octopus was just saying these things to please Mrs. Puff. But he actually meant them, truly believed that his boyfriend would be better off without him.

Not a good feeling, no matter how rich you are.

"Okay fine, whatever," Mrs. Puff could care less about this sentimental crap. "But you still haven't answered the question. Why the fuck are you with SpongeBob?"

"Because I love him!" Why wasn't she getting that?

"You can keep telling yourself that. And maybe you believe it a little. But didn't you only date him to get back at Squidward?"

Shit, how'd she know that? Hadn't this discussion already taken place with that fat starfish? Fuck, it was harder now, with SpongeBob in the room. "That was only at first!"

SpongeBob gasped then, looking up at Squilliam in horror. "W-what?"

"I-I . . . c-come on, Sponge, o-only at first! The past doesn't really matter, does it?"

"I . . . I'm just a game to you?" It was starting to make sense to the sponge. Why ELSE would Squilliam be with him, except as a means to get back at his rival?

"NO!" Damn Mrs. Puff. Why did she have to be the one in charge of this kidnapping thing? "You're not a game! You're . . . fuck, Sponge, I wouldn't have come all this way if you were just a game."

"But y-you told me I had pretty eyes. And that y-you . . . you've never felt that way about anyone else before. You said I was s-special!"

"Yeah, Special Ed," Pavi laughed at his own middle school joke, although everyone, including Mrs. Puff, felt the jab was in poor taste.

"You are, Sponge! Not what Pavi said, but you're . . . you're one of a kind. You're unique and perfect and I love you so much! And . . . fuck, SpongeBob, come on, you know . . . you know I love you," He was repeating himself now, words failed him once more. How could he regain the sponge's trust? Why couldn't he pay someone to write his dialogue for him? Everything was coming out choppy and misunderstood.

"But y-you think it's more i-important to hurt Squidward than it is to love me," SpongeBob cried. "You only want me because you want to hurt Squidward." SpongeBob was just a pawn. Like always. It was so easy to use someone as small and weak as SpongeBob. He should have been used to it by now. "Y-you're just using me, and then when you're done, you'll just b-break my heart!"

But his heart was already broken, bloody remnants barely beating within his chest. He shuddered as he decomposed, disintegrating from the inside out. Nothing could harm him now, for he was numb, unable to feel anything—

Pavi reached out then, unable to take more of this verbal torture, yanking down the sponge's square pants.

Well.

SpongeBob certainly felt that, jolting him out of his heartbreak. "H-hey!"

Yes, that was authoritative. That would stop Squilliam's ex assistant from trying anything.

Mrs. Puff held the octopus back, not with her arm, but simply by pulling the gun on him again. Finally, the soap opera was ending. Which meant the bloodshed would take place shortly. "Pavi had the brilliant idea that you'd like a little show before you died."

"Show . . .?" Squilliam turned his attention from the gun to Pavi.

To Pavi pulling off SpongeBob's pants.

"H-hey!" Same reaction as his boyfriend, oddly enough. He had to add more, hands forming into fists. Useless fists, as they wouldn't strike out at anyone, especially with a gun pointed at him, but still, they were something. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Pavi chuckled, rubbing his hand down the sponge's stomach, enjoying the feeling of hot flesh shaking at his touch. SpongeBob looked away, crying out as a single finger trailed inside one of his many holes. It felt so odd, Pavi touching him like this. Even when he'd had sex with Squidward that one time, it hadn't felt like this. Squilliam was the only one who'd lingered on his skin, touching him slowly, diving in and out of each pore soothingly.

This wasn't soothing, though. This was dirty. SpongeBob moaned in fear as Pavi's fingers crawled lower, stroking at the front of soft white underwear. "I'm fucking your boyfriend, sir," He finally answered Squilliam's earlier outburst. "That's what the fuck I'm doing."

"Hurry up, Pavi. I just wanna kill these assholes and get it over with." Mrs. Puff's attention span wasn't long for this type of thing. True, it was hurting Squilliam, which was desirable, but she was growing a bit bored. Time to end this completely.

How could they be so flippant about their lives? Squilliam's muscles tensed, wishing for just a break in their concentration. Just a blip, just a millisecond, just enough time to knock Puff away and untie his boyfriend. He could do it-once the gun was out of the way, Squilliam knew he could take out Pavi with ease, and Mrs. Puff after a bit of a struggle. If only there was a break, some form of distraction. Some way . . . any way . . .

But all he could do was gape, barely able to protest as Pavi forced his hand into the sponge's underwear then, rough hands kneading greedily between the sponge's legs.

"OH! Oh god, s-stop!" SpongeBob couldn't push him away, voice hitching at the contact with his cock. Pavi chuckled, circling a finger over the head, forcing the sponge to moan despite himself. "N-no! Don't d-do that!"

It occurred to Squilliam that normally he'd be angry that someone was touching that which was his. That was his normal view of his lover in a relationship. Property. Don't touch it, it's mine!

But in this moment, all he could think was how miserable SpongeBob must feel now. SpongeBob wasn't Squilliam's. SpongeBob was his own person. And Pavi was trying to destroy him, tear away his very identity.

How this must hurt his boyfriend, losing himself in such a way. His poor, sweet, pure boyfriend. Screaming and trembling, tears flowing down his soft freckled face as Pavi worked his clammy hand over his most sensitive flesh.

"S-stop it!" SpongeBob writhed against the rope, trying to pull away from Pavi's greeding hand. This was so wrong. So sick, so vile, so . . . so . . . S-Squilliam was going to hate him now. SpongeBob was tainted and used. Nobody wanted used merchandise. "STOP!"

The other hand reached out then, yanking the underwear down completely, exposing the sobbing sponge to everyone in the room. "Now then, SpongeBob, baby, this is probably going to hurt. A lot. But—"

"Just fuck him already!" Mrs. Puff shouted. She did not want to be turned on when she murdered her ex and his lover, although judging by the moisture between her legs, it was too late for that. Damn. SpongeBob may not have been handsome, but hearing his innocent moans and begs were certainly working her up. "Make him bleed, whatever, I don't care. Just fuck him so I can kill them already. Christ . . ." Why had she hired such an amateur to help her with this? True, he'd had inside information that had been helpful in capturing SpongeBob in the first place. Still, what was with the "molesting SpongeBob" obsession? She hadn't minded the spankings and such before, but this was just ridiculous.

This was rape. Not lovemaking. So why all the foreplay?

"Get your fucking hands off him!" Squilliam growled. Finally, his anger was back, pure rage dissolving his earlier fear. "I'll fucking kill you, Pavi! Get away from him!"

Mrs. Puff backhanded the millionaire with the gun, not hard enough to knock him out again, but hard enough to cause him to yelp in surprised pain.

"S-Squilliam!" SpongeBob gasped, looking at his teacher in shock. "D-don't hurt him. Please!" His pleading was cut off as Pavi pressed against his back, having moved behind him, the male captor's hand wrapped around front and working up and down SpongeBob's shaft teasingly slow.

"Don't worry about him," Pavi panted, licking the side of SpongeBob's face slowly. Tears and sweat and spongy flesh. It was a good combination, one that Pavi doubted could be replicated with any other food.

"Like wh—AGHH!!!" Every neuron flooded to SpongeBob's lower region, screaming as Pavi forced himself inside the sponge, hard cock burning its way through the boy's cavity, tearing him open in a way SpongeBob had never experienced. The yellow male screamed once more, choking on his own fear and pain. Nothing had ever felt like this in his life. Sex with Squidward hadn't been like this, and that had been his first time. And sex with Squilliam had always been pleasant. Always.

So why the sudden pain? Why did each thrust feel as though something were being removed, as though a scalpel were digging into SpongeBob's chest and digging away the fragments of his broken heart? He couldn't fight this, couldn't break away. All he could do was scream. Scream and cry and hope that Squilliam wasn't watching every move and judging. Scream and hope that Mrs. Puff would kill them quickly, kill him now so he would stop feeling.

That scream. It drove away all Squilliam's physical pain, burning away everything but SpongeBob. His SpongeBob. His beautiful, perfect SpongeBob . . .

And Pavi. Pavi inside SpongeBob. Pavi raping SpongeBob. Raping, destroying, ruining, tainting . . .

That scream, each drop of SpongeBob's innocence carrying through the wind on that one scream, diffusing in the room and dissipating, evaporating, going, going, gone. That scream, breaking two hearts in one.

And it was all Squilliam's fault. Every bit of this was his fault. He'd dragged SpongeBob into this hell, dragged him to a level of hell below anything that Dante could dream up. And now both would suffer for Squilliam's sins. Both would die, dying each minute. Multiple deaths before Mrs. Puff got to them with her gun. Squilliam's breath hitched, eyes unblinking, already a corpse now, the image of his darling's destruction permanently burned into his retinas.

"You're pretty tight for one of Squilliam's whores," Pavi panted, pushing deeper into SpongeBob with each thrust. SpongeBob was past whimpering now, past sobbing. Full out wailing, voice occasionally quiet as he tried, and failed, to catch his breath. It was hard to distinguish which he felt more: shame or pain. Agony because of Pavi inside him or agony because Squilliam was watching? Either way, he shut his eyes, unable to bear anymore. Who knew? Maybe if he shut his eyes, he'd die that much faster, fade away and feel nothing at all.

And so, with shut eyes, it was no wonder why SpongeBob didn't see his best friend barrel into the room, stumbling slightly at he ran full speed into armed and dangerous (and maybe slightly horny) Mrs. Puff.


	9. Chapter 9

Hitting a woman was something a sane, fully functioning man in society would never do. It was strictly taboo, completely wrong. Sick, in fact. People could be lobotomized for such gruesome, animalistic behavior.

Hell, even animals didn't hit females. That was just barbaric!

Patrick Star was barbaric, though. Social norms stood no chance against his animalistic rage, the starfish tearing his hands into Mrs. Puff's oily face. A tumble of sweating, overweight bodies, with Pat now underneath, but still stronger, still reaching out. Still fighting, clawing, scratching, punching.

After all, there had to be certain loopholes. Hurting SpongeBob was a bit more barbaric than hurting a woman. At least a woman had a chance at defending herself, unlike the trapped sponge. There was no denying it: SpongeBob was weak. A creampuff. Completely defenseless, tied up or otherwise. Patrick had been wrong earlier. Hurting SpongeBob was much worse than kicking a pregnant woman in the stomach.

At least the pregnant woman was capable of rage.

How can someone fight when they don't get angry? When all they know is love and compassion and sorrow and joy? When the closest thing they have to anger is mild annoyance? Even if physically capable, SpongeBob wouldn't be a fighter. He was too . . . well . . . he was too nice.

Speaking of SpongeBob, Patrick hadn't gotten a good look at his friend. The sea star was oblivious to his friend's plight, oblivious to Pavi, oblivious to Squilliam. All he'd seen was Mrs. Puff. Mrs. Puff and a gun. And that was all he needed to know before acting. Hell, he didn't care about innocence or guilt, good or bad, right or wrong.

He just knew, even without seeing, that SpongeBob was hurt.

And if Mrs. Puff was here (and armed), then she must have been the one instigating the hurt. Even if she wasn't, this was the only chance Patrick had. The only way he could rescue SpongeBob. Poorly planned as his strategy may have been, at least he was doing something. This was more physical activity than the starfish had taken part in . . . well . . . probably in his entire life. And all for SpongeBob.

That was really saying something. Patrick chose saving his best friend over sleeping or watching TV. Nice thought there. Maybe he wasn't so self-centered after all.

Mrs. Puff yelped as the starfish yanked at her thin blonde hair, pulling tufts of silken locks away. The fat male had taken her by surprise, gun flopping a few feet away. Another flip, and Patrick was on top once more, slamming the fish's head into the ground repeatedly. Skull bashing. Mrs. Puff could barely yell in pain, each sound knocked away with each repetitive crack of bone to linoleum.

The kitchen had some hard ass floors.

Squilliam, who'd only earlier hoped for such a diversion to present itself, froze, his eyes widening as the starfish beat the woman. Where had Patrick even come from? The tunnel? How had he . . . and what was he . . . and when . . .? What . . .? Squilliam scrambled for some clarity, brain abuzz with the peculiarity of this entire situation.

Quite honestly, he'd never seen someone slap and claw and pull hair in such a way (aside from sexual situations, of course, but that was completely different). This was like a scene out of one of those trashy day time talk shows. Not that Squilliam watched such drivel. That crap was aimed at a much poorer demographic than Squilliam belonged to.

Alright, fine. ON OCCASION he'd watch those shows.

Hell, they were addicting. Finding out who the baby's daddy was and all that. How could one change the channel while such drama took place?

Enraptured, Squilliam couldn't turn away. At least for a few seconds. His senses kicked back in, though, as he picked up the continued whimpering from SpongeBob. That did the trick, breaking the octopus away from unprofessional wrestling to unrehearsed sorrow. Spongie and Pavi, still going at it as though nothing odd was taking place at all.

Going at it. The wording was wrong. How was Squilliam supposed to address the situation? Rape. There was no other word for it. No poetic jargon. Just rape. One syllable, like a bad punchline in a cheesy jokebook. Only no one was laughing here. Outsiders may have found some humor to this, but when trapped in the joke, there's oddly silence. A few thuds on the ground from the scuffle between Mrs. Puff and Patrick, and a few abnormally quiet sobs from the mid-sodomized sponge, but nothing more. No soundtrack. No laugh track. Nothing to ease this, nothing to bring back Squilliam's ease of self.

Pavi, however, appeared unfazed. Although surprised by the sudden assault between two fatties, the sweating fish hadn't taken this as a cue to complete his thrusting, to pull out and help his female boss. As if he had any loyalty to that woman besides a paycheck anyway. After all, he'd felt no guilt betraying Squilliam, and the octopus had been the peak of Pavi's sexual awakening (even if nothing had occurred in the last few months, since that damn sponge came into Squilliam's life) (although Pavi had to admit, with as ass as tight and firm as SpongeBob's, he couldn't blame Squilliam for settling down).

No, Pavi could not quit now, not mid thrust. Not while so close to one of the best orgasms of his life. This rape thing was more exhilarating than he'd anticipated, this sponge more desirable than the earlier spankings had led him to believe. He had to complete his thrusts, rather than helping Mrs. Puff. The personal assistant sighed happily, pelvis diving forward and back as he watched the show, giggling slightly at the ridiculousness of the fight. Now he had a show while he raped. The rape was a show for Squilliam, and the fight a show for Pavi. And . . . well . . . SpongeBob didn't really need a show.

Oddly enough, Pavi hadn't factored on Squilliam knocking into him a few seconds later, knocking his surprisingly frail body to the ground (Mrs. Puff was both the brains and brawns of this operation).

"H-hey! I was in the middle of somethi—" Cut off by a jab to the face, tentacles packing quite the punch. Pavi groaned, blood almost hesitant before dripping down his face. He fell to the ground, legs sprawled apart pathetically.

It occurred to the bleeding man that his dick was still out.

The same thought seemed to have occurred to Squilliam as well, as one of his four feet descended on the male's crotch.

"O-ow!"

"You're lucky I don't cut it off," Squilliam snarled, eyes flashing. Pavi blinked, shocked both at the fact that eyes were capable of flashing, as well as pained at the pressure against his favorite organ.

"I-o-ow! C-come on, Squilliam, I was just-AGH!"

"Stay the fuck away from my boyfriend!" Squilliam's words may have been unthreatening and stupid, but the continued pressure of his foot carried his point across.

"Agnn-fuck, Squill-aGH!! It wasn't personal!" Tears streamed down his face now, small fists pounding into the ground in pain. "Gittoff my dick, please!"

Squilliam's eyes narrowed. That "nothing personal" excuse was only okay when he used it. He didn't want to hear about how this wasn't personal and, frankly, he didn't give a shit either way. Personal or not, it had happened. And Pavi had to pay.

"Hey . . . hey! He . . . um . . . he had it coming . . .?" Pavi laughed nervously, before breathing a sigh of relief as the pressure on his cock relented. "Just take it easy, ma—AGH!!!"

He sobbed once more as Squilliam slammed his foot into his crotch at full force. True, Pavi had never planned on reproducing, but that was an unnecessary blow. He was incapable of yelping, instead gasping as the wind was literally knocked out of him, gills fluttering pathetically, uselessly, unsatisfied cock swelling.

"Take it easy?" Another kick, for good measure, Squilliam laughing softly at the reaction. He was certainly getting a kick (no pun intended) out of this violence thing. There was something primal and raw to it. Almost as satisfying as a good fuck. Speaking of which . . .

He paused, pulling away from the cowering Pavi and running over to SpongeBob. His good fuck. No, his lover. His one and only. His . . . well . . . everything. Fuck, why did he have to get so cliché when it came to SpongeBob?

And fuck, he didn't have time to worry about that. Blood dripped down the sponge's thighs, soft gasps of pain and fear almost rhythmic, almost musical. A song to their pain. Turned out there was a soundtrack after all. "Hey, are you okay?"

That was an about-face. From complete homicidal rage to loving, "everything will be alright" worry. True, it was a stupid question. SpongeBob most certainly was not okay, and it was doubtful that he ever would be okay ever again. Still, Squilliam had to ask. Had to play the part, even if the part was redundant and unnecessary.

SpongeBob cried, continually cried, twenty four hours worth of tears and pain. No, not twenty four hours. Every second, every ounce, every strain of pain he'd ever experienced catalyzed this moment, prepared him for this one cry, this tear shed, this unending flood of angst and pain and torment. The small sponge strained against the ropes, tugging uselessly. He was useless. Fucking useless. More tears as more mental insults, half formed descriptions of self loathing echoing in his cranium. Echoing but unable to escape. No words, only tears.

And that terrified Squilliam. SpongeBob just wasn't a quiet guy. True, he knew he'd just gone through a traumatic experience, but for no words to come out of his mouth at all? The octopus was used to taking command, used to being dominant, but now the simplicity of his role was failing him. He didn't know how to be in charge now. He didn't know how to make everything better. He didn't know anything.

And he needed to. He NEEDED to know what to do. SpongeBob wasn't capable of helping himself now, and shouldn't be expected to. Squilliam had to be a good boyfriend, but he just couldn't think of the right words, the right actions, the right . . . the right anything. He'd come all this way, expecting to rescue him and be done with it. But it wasn't so simple. It wasn't a matter of getting SpongeBob home with him. There was more damage than that. SpongeBob wouldn't be whole again, and Squilliam didn't know how to fill in the gaps, how to turn back time until SpongeBob was himself again.

How the fuck was Squilliam supposed to fix a broken heart? All he had was money and cheap charm, neither of which could do anything. Nothing! He may have been in love with SpongeBob, but his love was completely worthless now. His love was cheap. Squilliam was cheap. He had so much money, but he was cheap all the same. SpongeBob was gold, and Squilliam was fucking garbage. Not even a metal. And how was garbage supposed to make gold shine? It couldn't! He couldn't. It was pointless.

But he had to try. Giving up on himself would only imply that he'd given up on SpongeBob. And he couldn't do that. SpongeBob still had his faith, no matter how broken he was.

"It's okay," Squilliam finally said. Okay. Two empty syllables spoken to one empty vessel. No. SpongeBob wasn't empty. Just broken. Squilliam was the empty one. He held back his own tears, wrapping one arm around his boyfriend's waist, the other hand quickly jerking the ropes away, the bindings fluttering to the ground slowly. They hadn't been tied very securely, which only made Squilliam feel that much worse for the sponge. What did it feel like? Being too weak to even defend himself from such a pathetic obstacle? God. Squilliam was emotionally weak, and SpongeBob was physically weak. Did that just make them a weak couple? Or were they strong together? He wasn't sure. Wasn't sure about anything.

"It's okay," The octopus repeated, letting the naked and battered boy crumple against him. Squilliam bit his bottom lip, only defense from crying himself. Soft yellow flesh melted against his, the complete trust the of the submissive sponge only hurting Squilliam that much more. "I got you, it's okay. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. Fuck, this wasn't okay at all. Squilliam wasn't okay, SpongeBob wasn't okay. Nothing about this was fucking okay. Everything was fucking dead in this room. Nuclear war, total destruction. Kicking Pavi's ass had been the easy part. This . . . this was so hard. The feeling of his love's tears soaking into thin, torn silk both literally and emotionally weighed the octopus down. Such a burden. Was he strong enough to hold SpongeBob forever? Was he strong enough to keep him safe? He hugged the sponge closer, rubbing his back softly, circular movements attempting to bring some sort of peace.

"It's okay."

Saying it wouldn't make it true. But the mere repetition of that mantra seemed to calm the sponge, at least slightly. It did nothing to calm Squilliam, of course, but for once, he had to push aside his selfishness. It wasn't about his own calmness. It was about calming SpongeBob. He had to make SpongeBob believe everything would be okay, that Squilliam had that kind of power. He had to uphold his cracking image of power, of complete control. There was no alternative.

It was an odd feeling, putting someone else's needs before his own. Squilliam had never done such a thing for anyone before SpongeBob. Had never felt the need. Why was SpongeBob so important? Why did any of this matter?

Why would anyone want to hurt SpongeBob? Yes, he knew the motives, weak as they may have been. Yes, he'd heard everything, seen everything, mentally understood everything that had taken place. But how could someone physically bring themselves to destroy someone as good as SpongeBob? Squilliam tightened his hold, wishing there was a way to transfer the pain from SpongeBob's body into his own. Hell, the sympathy pain was bad enough.

No, it wasn't bad enough. Squilliam wanted to hurt. He wanted to bleed for SpongeBob. But he couldn't. He couldn't do shit. All he could do was hug and massage and whisper "it's okay"s. Fucking LYING! Lying after he'd promised he never would again.

Lying because he didn't want to hurt SpongeBob. He had to lie. How could he say "it's never going to be okay again"? How could he tell the sponge that the rest of his life would be misery and fear? He couldn't do that! He couldn't break the sponge any further than he already was.

But even these simple analyses had to be put aside for now. He couldn't think any more on this, focusing his attentions on soothing SpongeBob. He needed to opiate him, numb him. Stop all sensation.

Then maybe . . . maybe he'd be able to fix this.

"I love you," The words barely surfaced through the sobs, but they were there. Palpable in the kitchen, reflecting off linoleum. The first words SpongeBob had been able to say, and they somehow had the power to both break and mend Squilliam's heart.

"I . . . I love you, too, SpongeBob," He didn't hesitate because he was unsure. No, he'd never been more sure of anything in his life. Hell, he was more sure of his love for SpongeBob than he was his own self worth. Odd that there was actually someone that mattered more in this world than Squilliam Fancyson. Odd that someone so shallow could feel so deeply, and yet still lack the words to express himself adequately. "I won't let anyone hurt you again, I promise." God, he hoped he could keep that promise. He'd already broken the "no lying" promise. But this time . . . well . . . he couldn't allow any more pain into SpongeBob's life.

It hurt too much.

"How touching," Fuck. Squilliam had almost forgotten about Mrs. Puff. Almost forgotten that they hadn't yet truly escaped.

But wait, wasn't Patrick occupying her? Squilliam turned around, Patrick groaning on the ground. Fuck. Previous sorrow was replaced by undeniable, illogical rage. Couldn't that starfish do ANYTHING right? How had he managed to lose in a fight to Mrs. Puff? True, Squilliam himself hadn't tried to fight the woman, but that had been when she was armed. Hadn't Patrick knocked the gun out of her hands? Squilliam rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the starfish's weakness. True, his own boyfriend was weak, but . . . well . . . that was endearing. Endearing and sad, and only made Squilliam want to treasure Spongie more.

Patrick was just a fucking failure.

A crying failure at that. The starfish couldn't even look up, pink face flushed a dull red now in shame. Of course. His dramatic entrance had been for nothing. That fat driving teacher was stronger than him, had taken him out after the first few minutes. He'd failed. Lost. Loser. Loser Patrick, fucking it up when it mattered the most. There was nothing he could do to help his best friend. Nothing.

Tears clouded his eyes. Deep down, he'd always known he'd fuck this up. Why had he even bothered?

Because SpongeBob mattered. Even if Patrick didn't, SpongeBob did. And the sea star couldn't just do nothing. Even if failure was definitive. It was his destiny to lose. He already lost the love of his life to someone else.

But he couldn't lose SpongeBob to death. Patrick would rather have SpongeBob be in the arms of someone else, happy, than dead.

Or alone.

Or . . . well, it was one of those lightbulb moments for Patrick now.

Squilliam made SpongeBob happy.

Patrick did not. He blinked, thinking this through for a moment.

SpongeBob wanted Squilliam. Not Patrick.

If SpongeBob actually ended up with Patrick, then . . . then . . .

Then he wouldn't be with Squilliam.

And if SpongeBob wasn't with Squilliam . . .

He would be miserable.

He being SpongeBob.

Which meant SpongeBob would never, EVER be happy with Patrick.

Ever.

Took a moment for Patrick to digest that.

SpongeBob wouldn't be happy with Patrick. The starfish blinked, running that line over in his head once more. Had to figure it out completely.

SpongeBob wouldn't be happy with him.

In fact, SpongeBob would be miserable. Trapped in an unfulfilling relationship out of the kindness of his own heart.

Patrick would make SpongeBob miserable.

He couldn't stop thinking that. Couldn't help but realize how much happier SpongeBob was now that he was with Squilliam (well, not now-now, but in general). Couldn't help but realize how much shorter and less frequent the sponge's battles with depression and self-loathing were, now that he was in love.

In love with Squilliam.

Squilliam. Not Patrick.

SpongeBob loved Squilliam.

And if something happened to sever that bond, SpongeBob would be miserable.

Patrick actually thought all this through before Mrs. Puff retrieved the gun and aimed it at directly at Squilliam.

He thought all this before SpongeBob screamed, before Squilliam threw the sponge out of the way, before Mrs. Puff laughed and said something sinister about last words and just desserts.

He thought all this before that display.

And he continued to run the thoughts through his head during. Blinked, watched in slow motion as she aimed, as Squilliam stood still, eyes looking a bit blank as he stared the pistol down. Thought about this as SpongeBob sobbed, trying to scramble back to Squilliam but too weak, in too much pain, unable to do anything.

That was what got to Patrick the most. The need on SpongeBob's face. The pain.

Patrick could understand that kind of pain.

He felt it every morning he woke up alone, knowing he would never be with the one he loved.

They say when you're in love, you can do all kinds of crazy things in dangerous situations. Mothers lifting cars off their trapped children, that sort of thing. That the adrenaline forces action before thought.

But for once, Patrick was acutely aware of his thoughts, completely conscious as he rose to his feet, conscious of the fact that he was running (although he felt as though he were walking, strolling, moseying, going much too slow, not gonna make it).

He was conscious, analyzing each thought (odd how he was actually having thoughts-that was a miracle in itself) as he jumped in front of Squilliam.

Conscious as the first bullet pierced his chest, the second grazing his stomach, the third somewhere in between.

That was where coherency died.

They also say that in these situations, pain shuts itself off.

Those people are fucking liars. Patrick looked down, shocked at the source of his pain. At the pincushion his body was. Full of holes (not that he could actually see the holes through the blood). Like SpongeBob.

Painful holes. Bloody, insides coming out, outsides melting in red. So much fucking red.

Patrick, as pink as he was, had never been a fan of the color red. Yes, he liked SpongeBob's red tie. And the red freckles on his face.

Freckles. Red. Made the blood look not so bad. Connected him to SpongeBob somehow.

It didn't hurt so bad, really. He barely felt the ground as he crumpled down, barely heard the "Freeze! Police!"

Took them long enough. How long ago had Patrick called 911? Maybe they move slower for collect calls.

Maybe it had taken them too long to crawl through that tunnel. Damn tunnel. The guy who invented tunnels was a real asshole. Just like the guy that invented bullets. Fuck, this hurt. In a surreal, "can't really feel it that much", kind of way.

It was all surreal. Pretty colors. Mrs. Puff swirling as the police escorted her away, Pavi swirling somewhere in the mix, too. Squilliam, a dash of green-blue. He really was handsome in this light. Patrick could see why SpongeBob was attracted to him. In this halfdead haze, he was really quite a catch. Hopefully the two of them would be happy. That would be nice. Happiness. Wasn't that all anyone wanted?

This dying thing sure was taking awhile. Wasn't he supposed to be hearing angels? Seeing a white light?

Or was he going to hell? Did it really matter anyway? Did anything matter? Patrick felt philosophical, now that his life was ending.

Angels . . . ah, there was one now. SpongeBob, sobbing, throwing himself on his chest. Red liquid absorbing into his creamy yellow skin. SpongeBob . . .

SpongeBob was naked.

Patrick blinked again, wrapping his arms around his friend slowly. Each movement slow. That was how it was with death. It slowed everything. Soft pink hands against soft yellow back. Wishing to touch more.

Why not? He was dying. Might as well cop a feel, right?

But no. Not after so selflessly jumping in front of a bullet. Three bullets. Even dying, Patrick was too much of a loser to take advantage of SpongeBob. He sighed, letting his head fall back.

Small hands fluttered over him, tears melting with wounds. "Oh P-Patrick . . . please d-don't die!"

"It's okay," Patrick slurred. "You'll be happy now." He managed a smile, only to be slapped slightly by SpongeBob.

SpongeBob felt guilty, of course. How could he slap his dying friend? "H-how can I be happy without my best friend?" His body shook hard as he sobbed, holding close to Patrick's bloody torso. "Please don't go. Please don't die! Oh . . . w-why couldn't I have died instead?" SpongeBob crumpled against Patrick's chest, quivering as he sobbed.

Patrick wanted to reassure his friend, wanted to tell him everything was okay, but it's difficult to speak while dying.

And that's when Patrick realized something even worse than that.

The sensation of SpongeBob's naked body, pressed against his own, was giving Patrick a major boner.

_Great. My corpse is gonna have a fucking stiffy,_ Patrick thought angrily. He was going to die just as he lived: sexually unsatisfied. Fucking great. He was going to be a joke at his own funeral.

SpongeBob seemed unaware, or at least didn't bother to be upset, still sobbing, still begging. Still sexy, even now. Fuck! Patrick couldn't die with perverted thoughts in his head. That was classless and wrong, even for him.

The room was swarming with cops. Or paramedics. Patrick couldn't tell which. And frankly, he didn't care. All that mattered was SpongeBob, death . . .

And his rock hard cock. Fuck, that thing just wasn't going down. How could he get an erection while dying?

The cops were pulling SpongeBob back now. No, not cops. These were paramedics, definitely. Cops were dealing with Puff and Pavi.

No, that was all dealt with. This was so hard to follow. A major part of the plot seemed to have been eaten away, and all Patrick could think about was dying. And woodies. Fuck.

"NO! Don't worry about me," SpongeBob was struggling as the paramedics pulled him away, trying desperately to return to his friend. His poor, dying, bonertastic friend. "Pat's the one that's been shot! S-save him! PLEASE!"

Where was the horror? True, they saw this kind of thing every day. Still, they seemed particularly nonchalant about this. Well, not about SpongeBob. They seemed to care greatly about SpongeBob's wellbeing.

And . . . well, who could blame them? That was all Pat and Squill had cared about, too. Still, it does give one a sick feeling in the pit of the stomach to know that even random strangers cared more about one's best friend than about . . . um . . . one. Or you. Either one.

One: the loneliest number. Now Pat was going to die alone. Alone except for his cock, pleasantly upright and perky in ever tightening shorts.

"Sir, I think there's something you should know." One of the various paramedics was speaking to the sea star now, SpongeBob pulled away. Out of the room, presumably to an ambulance. Patrick didn't fucking know. He was dying. He didn't have time to follow that kind of shit.

"I'm going to die. I know," Patrick let the tears fall then, turning his face away. When was his soul going to depart already?

"Erm . . . well . . . actually . . . um . . ." The paramedic laughed nervously, "You were shot with a paintball gun."

It took Patrick a moment to truly understand what he was just told.

"WHAT?" Patrick actually sat up then. No fucking way. Paintball? What kind of sick joke was that?

"Yeah. Turned out Mrs. Puff wasn't armed with an actual gun. It was just a paintball gun. I mean, she may have thought she had an actual gun, but—"

"Paintball?" Patrick reached down, touching at one of the red mounds on his body. Hurt like hell, but wiping the substance away proved that it was indeed nothing more than paint. All he had to show for his heroism were some welts.

"Oh, and another thing, sir?"

"What?" Patrick asked, voice dull. He'd really thought he'd done something brave. Instead, he was just a joke again. Typical. Patrick couldn't get shot by an actual gun. Just fucking paintball pellets.

The paramedic actually laughed out loud. "Dude, you have a fucking boner."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Squilliam still couldn't quite believe that the three of them had made it out alive. Lived to have a cheesy fucking epilogue about their tale.

He also couldn't believe Mrs. Puff was such an incompetent idiot. Leaving the weapon buying to Pavi. Not questioning anything, fully believing in the assistant she'd stolen from Squilliam. How could she not have known her weapon was useless?

"I was scared shitless by a paintball gun," Squilliam moaned softly, holding his head in his hands. How humiliating was that?

SpongeBob smiled, snuggling against the octopus. "But you still saved me. Even if all you saved me from was a paintball gun. And that counts for something, right?"

The octopus smiled despite himself. God, this ending was shitty. A bad comedy. Squilliam was living in a bad comedy. But at least the love interest was worth sticking around for. "Yeah, I guess."

Fuck, he couldn't even ask for happy-ending sex. Or hadn't been able to. He probably could now. Enough time had passed . . . still, fake gun or not, SpongeBob had still been raped.

Fake gun or not, SpongeBob was still broken.

And Squilliam still hadn't fixed him, no matter how many weeks had gone by.

But he was getting there. SpongeBob was mending, slowly but surely. Amazing how sponges could regenerate.

"And thanks for letting Pat stay the night tonight," SpongeBob's voice broke the spell of regret, although the actual words did little to calm the octopus.

"Yeah . . . well . . . whatever," Having Patrick in the house for the night wasn't as bad as it had been sleeping with him in the same bed. Still, Squilliam couldn't help thinkin—

Oh, who was he kidding? He had grown more than a little bit tolerant of his boyfriend's best friend. He was a part of SpongeBob's life, after all.

Besides, he had taken a bullet for Squilliam.

Even if they had only been paintball bullets.

SpongeBob seemed to have been thinking the same thing, speaking up finally. "I don't know how to repay him."

"For what?"

"For saving me."

Squilliam rolled his eyes. "Oh please, I did all the real work."

SpongeBob giggled, voice a bit weak. "Yeah, but you're the only one of us that got out of it without any injuries."

"All Patrick got were slight bruises! And I tore up my favorite robe trying to save you. The least I could get is a thank you kiss, you know."

Of course he'd gotten thank you kisses. He could have gotten a lot more than kisses, too, if he'd actually tried guilting the sponge.

But even Squilliam wasn't that bad. Besides, he intended on keeping his promise not to let anything hurt his boyfriend.

SpongeBob giggled again, once more lightening the mood. It was nice that SpongeBob was laughing once more.

It was also good that he was kissing Squilliam. That always felt nice. Soft lips against his own slightly rough ones. SpongeBob tasted so fucking sweet.

"Okay," Squilliam relented. "I guess it's only fair that Patrick gets some sort of reward, too. It's a little unfair that I get all this sponge cake and he doesn't get any crumbs at all."

SpongeBob tilted his head, smiling serenely. "Well then, how do we show our gratitude?"

Squilliam smirked. He couldn't really keep his thoughts locked down any longer. "Well . . . it really all depends on how well you're feeling. And how big a thank you you think he deserves."

- - - - - - -- - - - - - - -

Squilliam sure had some boring ceilings. With all that money, Patrick assumed he'd be able to afford something more interesting. Like televised ceilings or . . . or at least those decal glow-in-the-dark stars.

He sighed, rolling over and looking out the window. This was it. This was as close to SpongeBob as he'd ever get. He smiled weakly, eyes watering slightly. At least SpongeBob was alive and happy, right? At least he was able to share this much of his friend's life. Share the same space. Sort of. At least for one night.

God, why had he taken a bullet for Squilliam? It had been worthless anyway. And the octopus was still just as sarcastic and mean around him. Still just as much an asshole to Patrick, even if he was a total softy for SpongeBob.

Then again, Pat hadn't taken the bullets for Squilliam's sake. Patrick had only done that for SpongeBob. The sea star didn't care about Squilliam. He only wanted his friend to be content with life. No, not content.

Happy.

It would have been so much simpler if Patrick had died, unsatisfied cock and all. Not that Patrick was feeling suicidal now. He just felt expendable, unnecessary. An intruder into SpongeBob's life.

Speaking of intruders . . .

The door opened, Squilliam walking in.

"Fuck, what do you want?" Patrick hadn't truly intended to sound so upset and angry.

As if the millionaire cared about his tone. "Nice to see you too, fatass."

Patrick glared at him, although his gaze softened when he noticed SpongeBob leaning in the doorframe. "Hi SpongeBob!" Chirping happily. Had to be a good friend. Had to hide his unease.

Had to fight that boner he'd gotten after being shot with paint.

Fuck, those were some humiliating memories.

"Hi Patrick," SpongeBob looked down, blushing slightly.

Huh. Why was he acting all shy? Patrick didn't have time to think, Squilliam clearing his throat.

"SpongeBob thought you . . . um . . ."

"Huh?" Squilliam acting shy too? What the fuck?

"Thought you, erm . . ." Squilliam rubbed his head, laughing slightly, "Fuck, this is awkward."

Message to Squilliam: Being in love is always awkward.

Although, to be fair, this was especially awkward. Even for Squilliam. He wasn't even sure SpongeBob was well enough to be doing something like this.

But then again, SpongeBob had insisted. Squilliam may have planted the idea in SpongeBob's head to begin with, but it had been the yellow guy who'd run with it, embellished it, clung to it desperately.

"SpongeBob thought what?" And why wasn't SpongeBob the one telling him, Patrick couldn't help wondering.

"Thought you deserved some sort of thank you for what you did a few weeks ago. You know, your little act of heroism. Even if the bullets weren't real," Squilliam couldn't help adding that part.

"Yeah? So what? Are you gonna write me a thank you note or something?"

SpongeBob laughed softly, plopping onto the bed on top of Patrick. The sea star gasped slightly, blushing at the pressure of SpongeBob against him.

Fuck, he wasn't going to get another boner, was he?

"No, silly. Well, yes. I already wrote you a thank you note," He looked over at Squilliam then, smiling innocently. "You too, Squilliam."

"I already received mine," Squilliam smirked. The fuck? Patrick was lost. Was this literal or . . . oh fuck, he didn't care.

"Anyway, no, not a thank you note. Or not just a thank you note. Um . . . what I mean is me and Squilliam were thinking maybe you and I and him should . . ." Yellow fingers trailed teasingly down Patrick's chest, then back up again. Circling and soft and delicate.

So delicate. So fucking perfect. God. Sucked that he'd never feel any more of SpongeBob than that.

"Thought that we could what?" Patrick asked softly, looking up at SpongeBob, not allowing his hopes to rise. What would his reward be for his worthless deed? Dinner? A movie? Whatever it was, Patrick was sure his mind wouldn't be fucked.

"Well . . ." SpongeBob smiled, looking at Pat, gaze soft. "Squilliam had this idea . . . and, well . . . I dunno if you would even WANT to, but . . . well, I would. I mean, if you want to. And Squilliam said it would be alright. And . . . and . . ."

"Sweetie, you're rambling," Squilliam chided gently.

"Oh. Right," SpongeBob was blushing now, completely red, unable to hold Pat's gaze.

"Well?" Patrick finally said expectantly, waiting for something. Anything. What could SpongeBob offer him? SpongeBob didn't really owe him anything, after all. The sea star set his expectations low, smiling politely as SpongeBob's next sentence completely shook his equilibrium, completely mind fucked him.

Completely completed him completely.

"Let's have a threesome!"

**AN: Ta-da! The end. My first completed multichaptered fic. And my longest fic at that.**

**And, can I be perfectly honest? I had this ending planned before I wrote any of this fic.**

**That's right. I wrote a whole fic just to lead up to SpongeBob suggesting a threesome between Squilliam and Patrick. Pathetic, I know.**

**But that does remind me: feel free to, you know, write the threesome. That would be fucking awesome, if someone decided to write a sequel or follow up or a PWP. I would probably have to have that person's children.**

**In fact, feel free to use any elements of this parody for your own fic writing.**

**Anyway, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I hope you guys enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing (because I won't lie, I had a lot of fun with this fic, as you can probably tell with its cracked-out-ness). Hope the cop-out ending didn't piss you off too badly.**

**I don't even know what to say. I'm terrible with goodbyes. Um . . . bye . . .?**


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